Hey Mom,

Just a quick tale from me today: I became Santa Paws! Spent the day distributing toys and treats to all the pets in Pawsburgh, spreading cheer and chowing down at the Pooch’s Pizzeria. Who knew a little pug like me could be the heartbeat of such a huge adventure? Learning the joy of giving has been pawsome!

Love,
Meisha Moo 🐾🎅💖

Listen to the story here

‘Twas the time when tinsel twinkled upon the trees of humankind, and in the magical retreat of Pawsburgh, a similar sparkle ignited within the hearts of my four-legged brethren. I, Keisha, the velvet-coated Pug of yuletide lore, embarked on a venture unknown to most leather collars and whiskered snouts.

Let me regale you with the tale—the day I donned the cap and duty of Santa Paws. A day of generous whimsy, I say, an escapade worthy of the annals of canine fable.

I awoke before the sun had the gallantry to tip its hat across the horizon, beneath the silken threads of my dreaming lair. An idea, bright and bustling, hurtled into my mind like a squirrel in a mad dash. “Why not?” the thought echoed, with the eternal optimism of a pup facing an unguarded roast. Why should I not be the bringer of joy, the guardian of gaiety?

I sauntered to the Dapper Dog Salon, my first port of call in the enveloping mist of dawn, where a platoon of elves—a Pomeranian perhaps, a Beagle or two—trimmed, powdered, and preened me into the likeness of the great Saint Nick himself. “You have the air of command,” the terrier stylist yipped, snipping away, “and the twinkle of mirth.”

Next, onto the Woofy Bakery, where mine own list—checked thrice for measure—unfurled like a magician’s unending kerchief. “Half a dozen gingerbread Canines, if you please,” I mused to the Spaniel under the chef’s hat. “For there are stockings to be stuffed and appetites to be sated!”

With my sack now bulging with sweets and squeaky delights, the golden chime rang high noon. I led my team—oh, dare I play the modest? A chariot of mismatched mutts, wondrous in their eagerness, stood ready.

We caroled down Whippet Way, our jingle bells harmonizing with the tune of hearty tales and goodwill. Briard Bridge provided an audience of ducks—disinterested maybe—but no less recipients of cheer.

A Labrador, wee in years and wide-eyed at our approach, crossed our path at Sapphire Schnauzer Street. From my satchel, I fetched a bauble—a first Christmas treasure. “Grow in kindness,” I whispered. “For that, my dear pup, is the truest of joys.”

The sun dipped, the moon aloft; Pawsburgh glimmered, awash with festive glow. The Pooch’s Pizzeria, its ovens warm and enticing, beckoned us in. There, amongst the din of merriment and the clatter of plates, I, Santa Paws, dined alongside comrades and kin.

What bound us that evening? Was it the spaghetti entwined in tales, or the simple breaking of puppy bread? Fellowship, I wagered, the heart of the season.

As twilight’s embrace heralded the return to homestead and hearth, I shed the trappings of my auspicious role. A hero? Nay, a humble messenger of yuletide sentiment, I was. And as my paws carried me back to the realm of men, where I’d resume the mantle of a simple domestic hound, a contented sigh parted from my jowls.

Tonight, dreams again shall beckon. And tomorrow, tail wagging, I’ll awaken to love and laughter; for even when not adorned in red and beard, I am, at the marrow, Santa Paws in heart and spirit—every day I stir to the clinking of my collar tags.

Let this be the chronicle of a day when I, Keisha, pug of little stature but vast aspiration, became infinitely more than a pet. I embodied the heartbeat at the feet of Pawsburgh’s grandest adventure. And so, I bid thee, dear listener, to cherish the rending joy of giving, as I have learned this treasured Christmas morn.

The End.