Hey pack fam,

Just wrapped up another covert Santa Paws mission in Pawsburgh – delivering joy like it’s kibble! Toy deployed to a lonely pup who was definitely on the nice list. Heart’s full, belly’s empty (skipped Poodle’s Pasta AGAIN 😅), but that tail-wag magic beats a treat comin’ and goin’. 🐾🎁🌟

Catch ya on the next frosty twilight adventure.
– The Rockstar 🐕💫

Listen to the story here

You know, they say every dog has his day, but in Pawsburgh, let me tell you, it’s Christmas everyday. And me? I’m Rocko – the unofficial guardian of joy here. Just imagine the Christmases you know, but sprinkle a little more magic, a dash more woof, and well, that’s my life in the merry lanes of Pomeranian Park and beyond.

So it’s a frosty Eve, and I’m lying on my back in Spitz Spire, contemplating my vast starry-eyed reflections; you’d think they could tell me why I feel like the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle that’s, you know, not just one dog short but almost a whole box. Heart thrumming like Little Man in a play-fight, I make a choice. It’s time to be someone’s Santa Paws. Not just with a chewed-up old tennis ball, but with, you know, the real deal.

Streets of Pawsburgh are a glow-up, like Pup’s Parfait on its best day, and I’m caught up in the wagging and bragging – all the four-legged hype – while I slink past Retriever’s Restaurant, where the scent is simply a belly rub to my snout. But I skirt it, ’cause tonight’s not about my anything-goes belly; it’s about filling someone else’s. The spirit hugs me with furry arms, tucking that thought like a bone-safe under the rug.

The Doggy Depot always glitters like the collar you’d wear once in a blue moon, if only to feel fancy. I slip inside, looking for something that’ll spell happiness in every bounce. And there it is – the perfect toy, brimming with potential smiles, nestled between ‘Sale’ stickers and dreams of forever homes.

Abigayle, Nigeria, Patches, mom, and dad, they’ll understand. They’ve seen the twinkle in my lick and a promise. Little Man, he’s my lighthouse, guiding me back when the waters get rough, when the idea of deliveries – humans with packages, a necessary evil – rile me more than missing out on a bone banquet.

Winding through Affenpinscher Avenue, with a secret or two tucked beneath my collar, I find her – a tiny tail, as lonely as last year’s Christmas. Her eyes are like my favourite, unspoken spot, waiting to unfold a story. And mine to tell. The toy transits from my carry to her joy. A secret Santa? Perhaps. But it’s not about the secret; it’s about the giving.

Heading back, I pass Poodle’s Pasta. My nose votes ‘yes’ but my heart’s already full – and not from culinary conquests. I imagine the disdain I might’ve felt for a bite of something less than, but it’s hard when you’re a dog who’s into everything – everything savory, sweet, or surprise.

I sprawot on that cherished spot – my secret refuge illuminated by the moon’s soft, white glow, like the puppy I just left, her new toy close. Promise, protection, play – the three Ps in my protective pouch. They say sharing’s caring; I say, it’s what fills the stars in my night sky.

So, as humans snore, we dogs soar – through the quiet joy of secret missions, the thrill of whispered four-legged tales. “Rocko’s his name, Santa Paws his game,” they’ll sigh, and I, a humble mutt with stars in my eyes and warmth in my wag, bask in the quiet aftermath, the hush of snow and the sparkle of a Christmas, lived. The echo of my pawsteps, a comfort, a promise, that in the world of tail-thumping trust, you – yes, you – are never alone. Not really. Not ever.

The End.

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