Hey Mom,

It’s Toots! Just wanted to share my latest escapade – I’ve been warming hearts in Pawsburgh, turning our own little Grinch, Old Grizz, into a festive furball just in time for the holiday sparkle! Turns out my bulldog tenacity (and a T-rex toy) were just what he needed to rediscover his tail-wagging spirit. Who knew? The town’s full of cheer now, and Grizz might just become a regular at the Puppy Patisserie 🎄🐾

Paw pats,
Toots 🐶❤️

Listen to the story here

I remember the year when the winds of winter grew particularly nippy ’round the tips of our ear flaps in Pawsburgh, a mystical place smelling of adventure and untold tales, ruled by the four-pawed and the furry-hearted. Within the bowels of Setter Shore, enveloped in a frayed scarf of fog, lay the dim little shack where dwell Old Grizz, the town curmudgeon, keeper of neither company nor holiday cheer.

Paloma, that’s me, a bulldog of some reputed charm and the stubbornness that could make a stone statue sigh. On that frost-licked morning, as the good dogs of Pawsburgh bounded toward the twinkling lights of Garnet Greyhound Grove, I trotted, steadfast and alone, toward that ramshackle retreat, a mission curled snugly in my heart.

You see, folks always said my affection was as broad as the day is long, and I fancied a challenge. The town’s festivities grinned and beamed, ribbons and bones hung from every bough, but Grizz only growled from his grim abode, his heart two sizes too small, or so they say.

With a T-rex toy in tow and the taste of last night’s chicken still fondly haunting my jowls, I embarked under the silver shield of the moon. No creature, be it dog or postman, had braved the path to Grizz’s door since many a howl ago, but the spirit of Yule was upon us, and I was no ordinary creature.

Bypassing Pooch’s Pizzeria and the other merry establishments where my fellows feasted in delight, I nudged the door of the hermit with a snow-muffled paw. No cheery bark welcomed me inside; only a gruff mutter touched my ears, and I wondered if my approach lacked the subtlety of a good game of fetch.

“Who’s there?” the voice was like gravel, laced with disuse and suspicion. I, however, sailed in with the grace of a queen returning to her court.

“‘Tis I, Paloma,” I announced, my tone bearing the warmth absent from his dampened hearth. “The bringer of holiday merriments and unrequested camaraderie.”

Old Grizz, buried beneath a knitted mountain of blankets, eyed me with the wariness of one not used to four-legged or two-legged guests.

“What’s the meaning of this intrusion, Paloma? Can’t a dog revel in his peace?” he grumbled, though I detected the faintest undertone of curiosity.

“Revelry, sir, is found in the company of others. And what joy is there in hiding from the world, when the world itself is ripe with joy?” I paraded my stuffed T-rex with ceremonious flair, nudging it closer to the old recluse.

He looked at the toy with something that wasn’t quite disdain nor delight, but somewhere in the uncharted waters between. Taking a deep breath as if to strengthen his resolve, Old Grizz spoke again, softer this time.

“Fine creature, your persistence is… oddly endearing. Perhaps there is room for a modicum of festive spirit in this old dog’s bones.”

We spent the evening exchanging tales and chicken remnants, ignoring the din of vacuuming from the memories of days past. The shack, once so chilly, grew warm with our shared laughter, the spirit of the season inching closer to Grizz’s heart, like a timid mongrel approaching a kindly stranger for a scratch behind the ears.

By the time dawn kissed Pawsburgh with its rosy hues, and Spitz Spire echoed with the carols of morning, Grizz was humming along, a twinkle in his once-dour eyes.

And as for me, well, I continued my reign as the monarch of merriment. Legend has it that Old Grizz himself was spotted at Puppy Patisserie, sharing a bite with those he once snubbed.

Thus goes the tale of Paloma, bulldog and holiday envoy, who saw the potential for joy even within the growliest of Grinches.

The End.