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Hey! Just gotta say, I’ve spent the last 12 nights leading a secret double life in Pawsburgh, stirring up Christmas cheer among my four-legged pals. Pulled off the ultimate surprise with my beloved squeaky ball turned treat dispenser! We had a howlin’ good time; there was joy, unity, and so much tail-wagging! 🐾 Back to being your loyal companion by day, but oh, the memories we made! – Joey 🎄🐕✨

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I, Joey, of noble German Shepherd lineage, had an affair to recount that befell me in the yuletide charm of Pawsburgh, a secret haven for us canine souls. Twas twelve days until Christmas, and like every twilight, with my human companion nestled snug in their bed, I embarked for Pawsburgh under the cloak of night.

Upon the eve of these twelve festive days, a decrepit rubber ball—I say decrepit with affection, you understand—squeaked morosely in my mouth as I trotted down Schnauzer Street. Lights twinkled, and the air hummed with carols only we dogs could sing. It was then, my dear reader, that on the threshold of Harrier Harbor I spied Max, whose howl could outsound the most clamorous of church bells.

“Good fellow!” I barked, tail swaying in the frost-kissed breeze. “Pray, what brings you to this wintertide wharf?”

In reply, Max, true to form, demonstrated his aforementioned vocal prowess, leaving my ears ringing like bells jingling from a festive sleigh. “Preparation, dear Joey! Pawsburgh’s Twelve Dogs of Christmas, remember? Each day a surprise! And I’ve got the honor of the first,” he bayed triumphantly, wagging all over.

Our little corner of the world, my dear reader, held fast to festivities as we mingled our way through Garnet Greyhound Grove. Luna, of the Huskies, joined, her eyes a gleam with lunar magic. “Joey, do share in the cheer. Have you no surprise for the lot of us?”

Thinking of my beloved squeaky ball, I reflected. A surprise, eh? A worthy challenge for a dog of my dignity.

The following day saw me at Corgi’s Crepes before the dawn had even thought to break. Setting down my ball, I enlisted the help of the Corgi proprietor, whose short legs danced a merry jig as we devised a plan most delicious.

Over the coming days, in proper Jerome K. Jerome style—if I may flatter myself thus—I engaged in pursuits of merriment, concocting a surprise to rival even the most elaborate of human’s Christmas feasts. For each day leading to Christmas, we gathered around Pawsburgh’s splendors. At Whippet Wraps, we savored the victuals in glee, and at Chowhound’s Chophouse, banquets commenced under garland-strewn chandeliers.

With each day, my compatriots unveiled their various delights, from Max’s boisterous treasure hunt by the Harbor to Luna’s icy sculpture display that gleamed as if hewn from the very stars above. And yet, as the eleventh day dawned, my time to astonish had come—my most favored squeaky ball lay hidden, filled not with squeaks, but with savory chicken bites accompanied by a dollop of canine-friendly peanut butter.

The gathered assembly of Pawsburgh’s finest yipped in delight as I revealed the prize, their tails a-blur in the crisp evening air. Citrus was nowhere to be found—no lemon to twist a snout in distaste on this night.

And so, dear friend, as the stars gleamed above, I found the true meaning of our Twelve Dogs of Christmas—it was not in the surprise itself, but the joy of sharing, of unity, of barking laughter spilling into the frosty night.

As the twelfth day waned and Pawsburgh’s lights dimmed, I returned to my human’s side, my heart swelled with pride of our canine revelry. In dreams, I chased my tail, the very dignity I boasted cast aside in the spirit of Christmas—just this once.

The End.