Hey Jamie,

Your runaway rascal here! 😎 Just a quick update from your favorite one-eyed wonder: Mission “Melt Grumpy Greg’s Heart” is going as smooth as a peanut butter Kong. Been pulling out all my best charm moves and might have scored us a new Pawsmas pal. Hold the treats, I’m coming home with stories to bark about! 🐾

Catch you on the furry side,
Marley

Listen to the story here

It was another typical Pawsmas Eve in Pawsburgh, a time when the town shimmered with fairy lights draped over Topaz Terrier Town and tinsel twinkling at Briard Bridge. Me? I’m Marley, the Fawn French bulldog with an eye patch that’s more a mark of mischief than menace. This is the tale of how I, the self-acclaimed Houdini of hounds, found my way into the heart of the local Grinch.

On this particular eve, as jingle bells chimed and pups pranced, I trotted out the door — my collar, a distant memory on the doorknob. Jamie thought of everything, but not even she could anticipate my artful wriggle. Off I dashed on the scent of adventure to the heart of Pawsburgh, crisp with the smell of Woof Waffles and Pooch’s Pizzeria.

I romped down the cobbled streets with a festive sprightliness, the kind only a grub-loving bulldog could muster, passing The Wagging Tail Bookstore which boasted a display of ‘The Great Catsby’ – Whiskers would appreciate that irony. My destination was the edge of town, or more precisely, the slight figure of a hermit dwarfed by Rottweiler Ridge — Grumpy Greg, the human who shunned Pawsmas like cats shunned vacuums.

“Marley!” a voice boomed, deep as a bass drum, which meant Buster had found his way too. With the exuberance of a jolly Golden Retriever, he skidded to a halt beside me. “You plotting to win over old Grumpy Greg?”

I woofed in agreement, my single eyebrow arched like I knew a secret, because, well, I did. With the conspiratorial air of a canine planning a raid on the treat jar, we approached Greg’s solitary cabin.

Inside, Greg was as cheery as a chewed-up slipper, his disdain for Pawsmas evident. No lights, no garland, no festive spirit – heavens, the man ate broccoli without a hint of disgust!

I pawed at his door, Buster alongside, our breath floating in the cold like doggy dreams. The door creaked open and there he stood, the scrooge of Pawsburgh, eyeing us with a suspicion reserved for salesmen and postmen.

“Marley?” His brow furrowed. “What are you doing here? And on Pawsmas Eve?”

I nudged my head, my most endearing wrinkle forward, eye patch perfectly tweaked. With the humble swagger of a pirate ship’s captain, I gambolled into his living room, presenting my prized tennis ball as if it were a golden doubloon.

“It’s… a ball,” Greg noted, dry as kibble.

“Ah, but not just any ball,” I might’ve said, if I had a penchant for piratey pomp. Instead, I rolled it his way.

What followed was a curious exchange. My tennis ball rolled towards him, he kicked it back. Yes, kicked! And with a smidgen more gusto each time. Buster and I exchanged a glance, mine saying, “Plan’s working,” his nodding, “Never doubted it.”

The third time, a reluctant smile crept onto Greg’s face, and by the fifth, a chuckle that filled the room like the comforting scent of Puppy Plate’s pot pie.

“I suppose it is a rather fetching ball,” Greg conceded, for the first time sounding less like a hermit and more like a host. He glanced around the room, then out the window at the sparkling town, a heart somewhere decidedly less encased in ice.

And as…

Ah, but that’s enough for now. I can’t spoil the entire story, can I? Just imagine the rest unfolding, each moment a wagging tail leading to the next, until old Grumpy Greg himself was strung up with lights, carving those savory chicken chunks for me and Buster – a sight to raise your spirits higher than a tail during dinner time. And that, dear reader, is a true Pawsmas miracle in Pawsburgh. 🐾

The End.