Hey Jamie, guess whose tail became Pawsburgh’s beacon of holiday cheer last night? Yep, this gal! With Comet down, my glowing tail guided us through the fog to deliver all the Yuletide gifts. Pawsburgh is now brimming with joy and biscuits, thanks to a certain furry storyteller. Eager to wag this tale in person! 🌟✨ – Trigger

Listen to the story here

Now, as it happens in even the most silent of nights, there are tales a-stirring and I, Trigger, find myself with paw to paper to relay such a yarn. It began on an eve when the fog in Pawsburgh was thicker than a Chow Chow’s coat, and this, mind you, was no ordinary eve—it was the eve of Yuletide.

Jamie had left for the holidays, placing upon my neck a kerchief as festive as the season itself, and this meant I could roam free to Pawsburgh, the clandestine town where we dogs have our play and carry on in ways only canines can appreciate. With a bark goodbye to the worldly abode, I headed straight for the heart of dogdom: Pawsburgh.

Strutting into Pinscher Plaza, the fog laid as heavy as a Saint Bernard on your lap, swallowing the town whole. Now I’ll confess, I’ve never had much use for Rudolph tales; I was always of the mind that it took more than a shiny snout to make one’s mark. But that night, I understood the Red-Nosed Retriever had a purpose. And a peculiar one at that.

A bark echoed through the foggy curtain, a bark known to me as the baritone of Benny, the dachshund with an ego you could see from the tallest peak in Vizsla Valley. “Trigger! Trigger! Disaster’s struck! The deliveries!”

I was as confused as a pup hearing a whistle for the first time, but I hastened over, past Barker’s Bakery, where the scent of dog biscuits baked with the love that only a motherly Spaniel can knead into dough wafted through the air. Benny was circling in distress, while Whiskers let loose a series of yips as if practicing for a terrier opera.

Between hushed breaths and hurried pattering, Benny explained. “Santa Paws’ lead retriever, Comet, has twisted his paw. The gifts for all of Pawsburgh, they can’t be delivered in this fog!”

Well now, here was a pickle that would leave the best of us scratching behind our ears. But then it hit me like a rubber ball to the snout – my tail! My tail that wagged with the fervor of the town crier’s bell. I called for silence and made for the center of the Plaza.

“Friends of Pawsburgh,” I bellowed, each syllable filled with the warmth of a welcome hearth, “gather ’round for a Yuletide tale!”

My tail glowed like a beacon—a beacon of hope, love, and the joyous rapture of the season. In the magic of Pawsburgh, such things were possible, and dogs from Collie’s Cuisine to The Dapper Dog Salon came wagging and watching in awe. “Follow me,” I said, my soulful eyes gleaming. “We shall not let a twisted paw nor a pea-soup fog ruin our cheer!”

Magic, after all, is afoot in Pawsburgh where spirit speaks louder than words; and that night, it spoke in tail wags and the click-clack of paws on cobblestone.

Whiskers, always one for drama, proclaimed, “It’s a Christmas miracle!” And Benny, humbled for maybe the second time in his life, nodded his stubby head in agreement.

We delivered each gift, my tail swishing high and glowing for all, leading through the fog as sure as the North Star. The town rejoiced, and I, with a chest puffed out in pride, knew I’d more than just a good yarn to tell Jamie upon their return.

The fog lifted as dawn painted the horizon in hues of promise and warmth. I imagined Jamie, nestled and snug, dreaming of a Christmas morn where the world stood still for a moment to recognize the joy in simplicity—and a dog named Trigger, who could wag her tail for all of Pawsburgh and more.

The End.