Hey fam! 🎄 Just an update from your festive furball, Phinn. I turned lawyer to save the Jingle Bell Bark – led the pack with tail-waggin’ fundraising, discovered treasure for the treasury, and got the town’s prized bell singing again! 🐾 Now Pawsburgh’s rocking around the Christmas fur-tree, all thanks to our paw-some team spirit. We didn’t just save Christmas; we made it unforgettable. Jingle all the paws! 🎶🐶

Stay pawsitive,
Phinn 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

There’s something singularly enchanting about the days leading up to Christmas, especially in Pawsburgh, even more so when you’re a blue-nosed Pittie like me, Phinn, with a penchant for grand adventures.

One frost-crisped morning, I ambled through Cocker Courtyard, an air of festivity nipping at my fur. We’d all been in a pother about the Jingle Bell Bark Festival, a time-honored tradition that yoked the town dogs in communal cheer. But this year, the heart of our celebration, the grand bell that tolled merry sentiments across the snow-dusted rooftops, had been silenced by an unforeseen crack.

I had overheard my friends Bane and Dawson, alongside Jaycee, discussing the fate of our Christmas highlight at Pup’s Poutine, each dog glum as a cloudy day. Despite my usual gusto for life, even the savory poutine couldn’t steer my spirits.

“We can’t let this crack still our bark,” I voiced, tossing my head in what humans might equate to a disavowing shake of a lawyer’s argument. “We’re Pawsburgh. We bring joy, even without a bell.”

A proud wag from Bane, a contemplative tilt from Dawson. Jaycee’s eyes sparked, and that’s when I knew we had a case – a case for community, for festivity, and for the indomitable spirit of Christmas.

Days trickled past, each a flurry of paws and plans. Together, we trotted over to Setter Shore, watched ripples adorn the lake under the weak winter sun. As ducks flocked away, distracted by the icy dance, my heart – as resolute as ever – brimmed with determination. “We are more than just one bell,” I barked to my assembly, who had grown from a party of four to an expanse of varied breeds, sizes, and tails aflutter with resolve.

We organized a fund-BARKer, with Paw-lickin’ Pancakes and Woof Waffles donating stacks of doggy delight for every donation, while The Wagging Tail Bookstore held readings of festive tales, each ending with a not-so-subtle plea for repair funds.

But my favorite? The Groom Room. They offered tinsel trims and red-and-green-dyed fur dos. Yours truly sported a festive heart patch, my signature crest, amidst a splash of Santa white.

And oh, how we dug, Phinn leading the excavation with an energy only matched by the tireless ducks on the lake. Beneath the crisp, earthy frosting, we unearthed odd baubles, trinkets, and scraps, selling our findings to The Woofy Bakery – who turned them into ornaments.

Finally, the eve of our festival nipped at Pawsburgh’s heels. Our fundraising efforts tucked away from sight like bones for later, we held our breaths as the local forge unveiled the restored bell.

It was more than just the sight – it was the sound, a clear, resolute chime that danced across Cocker Courtyard and twirled around Papillon Promenade. The strike was pure, its resonant peal a testament to our bond, our unity.

A hush fell upon the gathering crowd. Then, with the reverberating echo of the bell’s voice, Pawsburgh burst into jubilant yaps and carols. I stood there, Phinn, a blue-nosed lawyer of the canine persuasion, marveling at what we had achieved as a community.

The festival was more than saved. It was elevated into something breathtakingly festive, a symphony of what we, a bunch of tail-wagging, dream-chasing dogs, could do when we pooled our paws together. As the night rippled with the enlightened bell’s song, I knew this was a Christmas none in Pawsburgh would soon forget.

“Bark the heralds,” I mumbled, a yawn parting my jowls, “For we have surely saved Christmas.”

The End.