Hey, it’s Zekeyboy, your resident tail-wagging, frog-healing Pitbull philosopher of Spencerville! Just slid into the Grinch’s life, used my indomitable charm to thaw his chilly heart and weaved a bit of Christmas magic. Who knew a dose of doggy persistence could lead to festive frolics and a friendship to bark about? #PawPower #MerryWoofmas 🐾🎄🎉 – ZB

Listen to the story here

Listen: Spencerville was every bit as quirky as it sounds, a fetching paradise devoted to the persistence of tail wags and memories. And there I was, Zekeyboy, a brindle-coated Pitbull that knew how to wear his stripes with pride.

So it goes, my days were stitched with the fabric of cuddles and stuffed frogs—the latter having experienced more surgery than the average Spencerville inhabitant. I partook in the creations of Bark Burgers on the regular, for their chicken, oh their chicken—it hit the spot, a spot vegetative matter couldn’t come close to hitting.

But that was the background music to my real story here.

Spencerville boasted Christmas cheer that could warm even the coldest of wet noses. Lights strung up like the constellations themselves had decided to vacation in our humble town. But beyond the glittery façade of Westie Woods and the festive howls and meows was a hermit, a Grinch by another name. He had a heart rumored to be two sizes too small and a disposition as sour as unripened persimmons.

I had my encounters with this character. Truth be told, those encounters were engineered by yours truly. You see, I had this theory about communal affection – it can transform.

So, equipped with my irrepressible spirit, I set upon this mission every dawdler in Spencerville whispered about but never dared to undertake—a visit to the house on the hill, outside of South Poodle Pond, where cheer went to perish. My grin was broad as I trotted up the path that no reindeer would dare to tread.

The Grinch, on perceiving my approach, grumbled a phrase unfit for polite company. His door shut faster than a cat’s reflexes at the vet—which, by the way, is a place that makes me exhibit reflexes of my own.

If you think a door is a sufficient deterrent for a Pitbull, you’ve never met one of us. I lay down by his door, as patient as the patientest thing you can think of—like a cat by a gopher hole.

Days rolled by. The door cracked open a sliver. I could smell the indecision – it smelled like a mix between the ointment they made me wear for my paws that one time and apprehension. I gave him my best look, the kind right before you get a scratch behind the ears.

He grumbled something anatomically insulting about my frog toy, but his hand found its way to my head. It was awkward, like a baby deer taking its first steps, but it was a start.

We began a clumsy tango of acceptance. I’d nuzzle his hardened shin, he’d mumble under his breath, and after a time span more fitting for growing an oak than fostering a friendship, he’d smile—a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

But as I said before, I am persistent.

We sat together, side by side, his hand resting on my warm fur, and I offered him my tale of the day. How the Fetching Deli messed up my order but gave me an extra fishy bite to make up for it, how The Snooty Snout Boutique had festive collars even for the Grinches of the world. Time passed, and his laughter started to bubble up, like a good stew in the making.

Christmas came like a symphony reaching its crescendo. I got him to walk with me through the town, a marvel of lights and merriment, and I swear his heart grew—three sizes that day.

He found a semblance of peace, not just with the world drenched in joy, but with the solitude that once was his only companion.

Look: I’m no sage draped in brindle. I chase my tail and get wary of the vet. But every now and then, I change a heart, I bring together what’s been torn apart. And in the art of living, that’s really the best part.

The End.

Share This Story: