Hey Mom,

Had the lead in Pawsburgh’s Christmas play as the Christmas Shepherd – complete with snowflakes and tail wags! Guided the lost pups, spread some cheer, and nailed my big speech. There may be an unwanted orange in my future, but tonight, I was the star guiding our furry friends home. Merry Christmas!

Hugs and licks,
Callie 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

In the muted glow of pre-dawn Pawsburgh, when the humans slumbered and dreamed of such trivialities as promotions and proper lawncare, I, Callie, roused myself from the luxurious cocoon of my bed. Today wasn’t an ordinary day; it shimmered with the magic of impending Christmas. But Christmas in Pawsburgh meant something more, something far more enrapturing. It was the day when we commemorated the Christmas Shepherd, the luminary of lost dogs, the beacon of benevolence.

As the colors of the early morning painted the sky, I trotted toward Pinscher Plaza. The telltale taste of impending snow bit at my nostrils, that oh-so-familiar tickle that foretold a blanket of wintry softness. Dash, Buttons, Seamus, and I had planned a small homage, a theatrical performance, if you will. One where I would play the Christmas Shepherd, guiding lost pups back to hearth and bone.

Striding onto the plaza, my ears flapped with anticipation, and the metronome of my tail provided a backdrop to the bustling preparations of my friends. Dash draped garlands over lampposts, while Buttons orchestrated the finer details of our makeshift stage. Old, wise Seamus – his eyes clouded with years but still sparkling with the zest of youth – sat reviewing our script. A nod from him told me we were on track.

I rehearsed the lines in my head, watching the flurries begin to dance around me. The Christmas Shepherd didn’t balk at measly weather, and neither would I, rain’s dampest disciple. “You’re turning into such an actor, Callie,” a passerby hollered, likely Bulldog from Bulldog’s BBQ, but I retained the focus of a carrot eyeing the chopping board.

The day waned and dusk flickered on the horizon. Pawsburgh’s citizens filed into the plaza, with curious eyes and wagging tails. The snow had decided that now was its cue, falling more eagerly, turning our town into a Yuletide snow globe. We took our positions, our paws silent against the white canvas.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began, my voice steady yet warm, “join us as we recount the tale of the Christmas Shepherd, the guiding star of wayward souls on a snowy night much like this.” The crowd woofed their approval, the air tinted with scents of Hound’s Hotdogs and festive spices from Tail-Twitching Treats, creating an olfactory symphony only dogs could truly appreciate.

The tale unfolded, the story of the Shepherd resonating in the crisp air. It wasn’t just about being lost and then found; it was a story of enduring kindness, the giving of oneself to guide others. It felt so much more profound since the tale bleed into the very ethos of Pawsburgh, a place where any pup could find refuge, play, and belly rubs square.

Dash maneuvered through the tableau with grace, while Buttons, ever the scamp, injected humor – the kind that had us all howling with laughter. And when it came to Seamus’s lines, the advice of the old to the young, you could hear the collective rustle of ears perking up.

My soliloquy – the heart of it all – held the weight of dogged sincerity. “For in giving warmth,” I professed, channeling the Christmas Shepherd, “we find our truest path, our brightest joy, and our deepest strength on this earth.”

The hushed silence that followed was broken by applause, a furry ovation that honored not just our performance but the spirit of unity it had kindled. Snowflakes settled like confetti, the air now thick with joy and anticipation of the Christmas morn.

Back into the realm of humans, I’d return to find an orange in my stocking – the dreaded citrus – but for now, nestled in Pawsburgh’s heart, I was every inch the Shepherd, a guide through the snow-flecked tapestries of this canine Christmas fable.

The End.

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