Hey Alice, Pawsburgh pulled a fast one on me this holiday! Found friendship, feasts, and a bit of frosty romance on ice – quite literally. Miss your blueberry pancakes, but my tail hasn’t stopped wagging since. Can’t wait to share the tail-wagging tales. Happy Howlidays! 🐾 – Rip

Listen to the story here

Ever since Alice decided to spend her holidays away, the twinkling lights of Pawsburgh seemed a bit dimmer through my twilight coat. ‘Rip, old boy,’ I muttered to myself, ‘who knew the holidays could feel so… solitary?’

But Pawsburgh, a tapestry woven with wagging tails, has its own way of turning a lonely whine into a symphony of barks. ‘Ho-ho-howliday spirit!’ they say, and I reckon they’re on to something.

One frost-kissed morning, I trotted down the snow-dusted Affenpinscher Avenue, Mr. Tug firmly clenched between my teeth. The world seemed wrapped in a quilt of silence, a tranquil blanket broken only by the distant laughter erupting from the Emerald Eskimo Estuary. I thought of Alice and her blueberry pancakes, the kisses of warmth that matched my coat, and for a fleeting moment, my heart felt as heavy as Duke’s hefty paws.

As if guided by the nose of destiny, I found myself standing before The Woofy Bakery, its windows fogged with promise. Alice’s absence had turned my stomach into a hollow drum. A rumble escaped me as I pushed the door with a nuzzle. The bell chimed – a solo in the quiet symphony of morning.

“What’s this, a holiday with no hound home?” boomed a voice from behind the counter. It was Max, the master chef, his fur as white as the flour on his apron. “You need a festive fix, Rip, my friend!”

“Well,” I started with a wag, “I am partial to…”

Before I could claim my penchant for chicken, Max slid across a steaming plate. “Turkey and cranberry bonanza, on the house.” His whiskers twitched with holiday glee. I tucked in, the rich flavors washing over me, drowning out the citrus memory that had my nose wrinkling by mere thought.

Rejuvenated, I continued my trail, weaving a figure-eight between the merry barks and yips until I found myself at Emerald Eskimo Estuary. The ice shimmered under the painted sky—a frozen dance floor waiting for paw prints to tell its story.

I hadn’t noticed her before—a mild-mannered beagle with eyes like winter lakes, tip-toeing by the frosted edges. Penny, they called her, a transient soul with a nose for news and a heart searching for stories.

“Care to skate?” I offered, as Mr. Tug sat forgotten on the snowy banks.

The dance was awkward at first, paws skidding, tails tangling. The laughter was real, though, and it echoed, bouncing off the icy ridges of Ruby Rottweiler Ridge. As we glided, spun, and stumbled, a crowd gathered, Duke among them. Each offered a paw or a tale, and before long, we were an ensemble of festive fur—the Holiday Hounds of Pawsburgh.

The estuary twinkled, Penny’s laughter mixed with the crisp air, and my heart, it seemed, had finally found its holiday warmth. We capped the evening at Chowhound’s Chophouse—the only place worth ending such a night—with platters piled high, shared amidst cheers and woofs.

Alice’s absence still twanged in my heartstrings, but Pawsburgh, with all its whimsy and warmth, had woven its magic once more. As I lay by the fire in the cosy little cottage, Penny resting at my side, I knew Alice would be thrilled to hear of this unexpected chapter.

Pawsburgh wasn’t just a town; it was home, a haven where even a holiday alone could turn into an unexpected festival of friendship. And as for love? Well, you could say it surprised you like a hidden patch of ice, sending your heart gliding into a graceful pirouette you never saw coming.

The End.