Hey Ma,

Just saved Christmas for a lost Husky in Pawsburgh – felt like a fluffy four-legged Santa bringing joy! Our Christmas Shepherd tradition continues. Think I’ve outdone myself this year with heroics, even without a cape. Night’s been pawsitively heartwarming.

Hugs and paw pats,
Your Little Gavone, Bernie 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

It was the sort of winter morning where the chill clung to your whiskers and turned every breath into a tiny cloud of defiance against the cold. Pawsburgh was festooned in snow; the kind that makes even the grumpiest Bulldog want to frolic. ‘Twas the eve before Christmas, and while the humans were tucked away snug in their homes, awaiting for old Saint Nick, we, the distinguished canines of this modest township, were making our own merriments.

I, Bernie, roused myself from a warm spot on the rug – where I had been dreaming of that which my heart truly desired for Christmas – and trotted towards Akita Alley.

The street lamps were all aglitter with frost, casting a glow warm enough to thaw even the iciest of moods. I hummed a carol in barks, congenially, as I strolled along, my tail swaying in rhythm. In our little world, us four-legged wonders held dear our own sense of guidance and kindness, particularly around the holly and the ivy.

“Bernie!” A voice interrupted my reverie — it was Dukie, with George at his side, prancing in the snow. “Where to, on this fine eve?”

I flashed a smile, the kind that left my friends in no doubt of my good humor. “To meet Jupiter at Samoyed Square. There’s talk of a traveler in need of guidance, and you know our Christmas tradition.”

We soon reached the square where Jupiter was waiting with a seriousness that belied the sparkle in his eyes. “There’s a Siberian Husky, new to town, lost his way,” he declared. “Needs help getting home for Christmas.”

A noble cause laid upon us; we were shepherds minus our flocks, and I, for one, could hardly wait to set a paw to the task.

The snow flurried around us as we patrolled the frosted lanes of Pawsburgh, a brigade of fur against the forbearing winter. By moonlight, we cornered Samoyed Square, Papillon Promenade, until, there, beyond the Dachshund Deli, we found him—an icicle of a dog, this husky, shivering through his tales of woe.

“We shall guide you home,” I pronounced in my best heroic tone, and my tail began its fervent wag. Not even a special dish I revered could match the joy that helping another brought to my heart.

We bow-wowed around this visitor, urging him to follow. I led our pack through the snowy labyrinth of the town, relying on my memory, one could envy as well-tuned as a virtuoso’s violin.

The husky’s house stood adorned with lights, a beacon in the hushed night; the sight induced more oohs and aahs than The Barking Boutique’s window on new toy day.

“You’ve saved my Christmas,” the Husky barked, his gratitude warming our hearts as effectively as Chowhound’s Chophouse could warm our bellies.

As we trotted back towards our respective homes, I felt a palpable sense of contentment knowing we had upheld the tradition of the Christmas Shepherd. This was what the holidays in Pawsburgh were about—guidance, joy, and the kindness that a dashing dachshund like myself could jazz up into an adventure.

Back in my cozy corner, with the stealth only a dog of my size could master, I claimed my prized spot on the rug once more, and the warmth of the day’s good deeds wrapped around me like the finest cashmere.

There it was—a day in life, in Pawsburgh, with me, Bernie, and my cherished friends, delivering guidance and kindness; not all heroes wear capes, some of us sport a dashing white chin.

The End.

Share This Story: