Hey Mom,

I’m the heart and soul of this Christmas tale. Found my purpose watching snowflakes, received winged wisdom, revisited my treasured past, and realized my lasting impact. I’ve been a chapter in life’s great story, spreading joy with every wag. Don’t worry, I’m still running through meadows, making memories—one fetch at a time. Merry Christmas, and remember, I’m always with you.

Love,
The Clodog 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

There I was, on Christmas Eve in Spencerville, watching as snowflakes made silent landings in Cream Maltese Meadow. Being a Boston Terrier of unshakeable mettle, it wasn’t the cold that bothered me; what gnawed at my soul was a sense of uneasy contemplation. On any other eve, I’d be out and about, tailing adventures with Abby and Pebbles or polishing off a dish at Fetch-N-Bites. But tonight, with the stars glinting a smidge sadder than usual, I found myself perched by the frosted windowpane, wondering about my worth in a human world from whence I came and went.

It’s curious, isn’t it? One moment you’re there, chasing balls, sharing warmth, making memories, and another—you’re here, in this canine Shangri-La, pondering a life you hoped meant something to someone. Sure, Bettys and tennis balls and the occasional grilled beef rib crumb—they fill your days. But there’s a silence that a bark can’t cure, a lingering question whether you were, in fact, a good dog.

Enter my furry twist of fate, a spaniel, who strolled in with a grace I found rather stark against the clumsiness of Collie Canyon’s wild winter. “Been watching you, Chloe,” the spaniel said, a shimmer around her—must have been a trick of the lights from Pug Palace over yonder.

“A guardian angel, for lack of a better word,” she said, floating closer. “Seems you’re in need of a bit of hope this Christmas Eve.”

Hope, indeed. When one’s sole job is to bring joy, to guard a family with nothing but zeal and a wag, doubt creeps in like fog—smothering, uncertain.

The spaniel gestured and Cream Maltese Meadow fell away as visions took its place. There they were, my humans, around a tree, baubles shimmering, hearts heavier than when I laid nestled on their laps, where I’d drop my head and everything just seemed…right.

“You changed their lives, Chloe. Each nuzzle, each game of fetch. They found joy through your eyes,” the spaniel mused.

The room with punches of my barks, the laughter, the sunlit trails—all rejoined in spectral replay, a convocation of happy specters. I saw Betty, ever my shadow, now leading our ragtag troupe of playmates without me. And damn if that didn’t sting—a mix of pride and whimsical regret.

Yet, as these lives played on, woven deeper by my absence, they grew. Laughter returned, the spaniel showed me fresh prints in the snow, a new four-legged merrymaker in the old backyard beneath the familiar tree.

Not replaced—no, never that. Rather, I was the prologue to a continued tale, a beat in the rhythm of affectionate recollections. Heirs to my once-vacant throne, living attestations of an endless relay race of joy and companionship.

Returning to Spencerville from the visions, I found the spaniel preparing to leave, her message delivered. As she did, something rather miraculous occurred—the discord in my soul lifted, supplanted by an aria of affirmations. The children, my humans, my friends, all those whose lives I brushed against, they were the ballad of my spirit, and I, a cadence in the symphony of theirs.

In the gentle night of Spencerville, it hit me: it is a wonderful bark, this life, this legacy. Maybe being a good dog isn’t so much about the chase but being part of the journey. With my reflections receding like shadows at dawn, I felt it—a heartwarming nuzzle from worlds away.

And you know what? I think I’ll run through Cream Maltese Meadow tomorrow. After all, a tennis ball awaits for its friend, and perhaps, there’s a new story to be found in its bounce.

The End.