Hey Mom,

Just saved Christmas over here in Pawsburgh by helping Burt the Mastiff find his holiday spirit! Gave up my dream snack from Dachshund’s Deli to spread some joy, and, gosh, the whole town is singing our tails off! Tired but wagging. More tail wags when I see you.

Love, Otis 🐾🎄

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Ah, but ’twas another Yuletide approachin’ upon Pawsburgh, the kind of festive readiness that sparked a special twinkle in every canine’s eye—even mine, Otis. As you well know, my friend, my heart swells like a chew toy under a deluge of drool at the mere mention of Christmas. I reckon the holiday spirit tickles my fancy more than a hearty game of catch with Angela.

I recollect that mornin’ distinctly, awakenin’ with my raggedy raccoon, its stitches comin’ undone like fibs to a puppy’s ear. I sprung from my slumber, ear marked on the calendar for all the festivities and generous doin’s that would put a bulge in a greyhound’s side.

As I trotted down the biscuit-lined Lhasa Lane, my eyes set on Diamond Doberman Dunes—where the snow cascaded like a fresh pour of cream over hot vittles—I chanced upon a sight most peculiar. A forlorn Mastiff, humbler than a cur caught stealin’ sausages, sittin’ ‘neath a draggled tinsel tree. Now, the Mastiff bein’ a sizable pup with a name like Burt, had a reputation for a soul as soft as his barks was deep—though mostly he’d scowl like he was born under a thunderin’ cloud.

“Burt,” says I, tip-toeing ’round my own shyness with the grace of a cat in a cattery, “what’s ailin’ you on such a fine day?”

He fixed me with a gaze sadder than a rained-out picnic. “Otis,” he pondered, “I’ve gone and snarled at every pup this Yule season. Feels like my heart’s been trampled by a pack of runaway wagons.”

Now, I consider myself sharp as a hound’s tooth—so I hatched me a plan quicker’n a squirrel dodgin’ an eagle. “Burt,” says I, a plan dancin’ ’round my noodle, “why, we’ll amble down this eve to Whippet Wraps. A Christmas party’s brewin’ there, with every dog from Pinscher Plaza to the outskirts ‘vited, and we’ll wrap up some o’ your generosity to hand out. Your heart will mend faster than a lassie’s love turns to a hound.”

He looked at me, skeptical as a cat in a kennel, but nodded, his spirit lightened by a sliver. ‘Course, that’d mean sacrificin’ my own beefy treat—I’d been savin’ my pennies for a romp through Dachshund’s Deli.

That night, the air ’twas crisp as a snack snapped from the jaws of fate, and the rooftops in Pawsburgh shimmered ‘neath the blanket of stars. We trotted into Whippet Wraps, tails high as the fir’s top ornament. Burt’s presence bein’ as welcome as a bone in a hungry muzzle, we were greeted with barks of joy—a veritable choir of canine cheer, if there ever was one.

We spread cheer as best we knew, and by jingles, it worked. Burt’s bashful grins were infectious as a belly rub, and I felt a warmth unfurlin’ in my belly, knowin’ full well that the true Christmas spirit be not in the receivin’ but in the givin’ of oneself. And as the night waned, our Christmas tale became a chorus, sung ’round Pawsburgh of how Burt the Mastiff found his heart, with a bit o’ cunning and a Border Jack’s clever heart.

Angela’s probably wonderin’ why’s her Otis so tuckered this mornin’. But with mysteries tucked tighter than a pup in a blanket, I reckon some tales are best saved for next Christmas, perhaps under Burt’s twinklin’ tree.

So here we hang up our tale by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Rover soon would be there. May your bowl be brimful, your heart swell with glee, for the truest Christmas joy is found where the heart is free.

The End.

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