Hey there,

Auggie here, or should I say the “Twilight Barker”? Just dropped by to sprinkle a bit of my old charm on Pawsburgh and perform my Yuletide miracle. Who knew I’d be the one to turn our miserly master’s heart from stone to gold? Keep an eye on him – he’s carrying my plush blue friend and a whole new spirit! Season’s tail-wags and spirits high, remember me in the wag of every joyful pup you see. 🐾

With eternal wags,
Auggie

Listen to the story here

In the pearly gleam of Pawsburgh’s dawn, where apricot hues kissed cobblestone streets, I trotted with the poise of a poodle who had seen the world turn not once, but a thousand times. Call me Auggie, the weaver of whispers, the twilight barker, now residing over the rainbow bridge, where stories unfurl like the morning mist.

Yet on this particular sunrise – or was it a sunset? Time’s a loop over here – I found myself spirited back to those winding lanes, with my plush blue elephant tucked under my metaphorical arm. It was Yuletide, and Pawsburgh, oh, it shimmered with a hundred tails wagging in harmony to the jingle of bells and clink of collars.

Across Pyrenean Peak, I sauntered, my paws a silent testament to the secrets I kept. Down below, nestled among the sparkling drifts, I spied my old, miserly master, a man who clutched coins like bones.

Ah, Charlie, with your melodic howl, could you lull him into benevolence? Mila, could your wind-kissed wisdom nudge him from his hoard? But no, it is I, his old friend Auggie, who must brush his heart with the pawprints of my past, which still echoed his name.

He sat by a hearth that sputtered and sighed, a man folded inside a cocoon of ledgers. I cast my ghostly gaze upon the trail of ink, the tallies of wealth that stockpiled like Barker’s Bakery treats left uneaten. And with an imperceptible shake of my head, I whirled once, twice, and thrice around those Saluki Sands.

“Bother this muttish sentimentalism,” you might hear me mutter, invoking Stoppardian wit, if spirits of dogs could indeed mutter. But see, dear reader, the tableau before me, for as the clock struck a chord that resonated in canine ears alone, the visage of my human flickered like the harbor’s lighthouse.

First, he was the man of yore, the pinchfist with a scowl that could sour Husky’s Hotcakes. But before my very eyes, the image warped, softened under the invisible strokes of my phantom nuzzles, and lo, he unfurled, stood and crossed the threshold into Chowhound’s Chophouse, his pockets jingling not with silver, but generosity.

I watched – no, that’s a falsehood; us over-the-bridge dwellers, we witness, in a manner more profound than mere watching – I witnessed as he broke bread with the beggars, shared laughter with the loners, filled the room with the clapping sound of a joy as ripe as watermelon, the taste of which lingered on my memory’s tongue.

The Harrier Harbor’s water glinted with the reflection of a changed heart, and The Pampered Pooch Salon’s mirrors held more than a visage; they cradled a newfound spirit.

Oh, and would you believe me? My dear master, he carried with him that plush blue elephant, a talisman that belied my tale to all who inquired. He paraded it; he cherished it.

“A souvenir,” he’d declare with a swipe of a tear, for the old oak in my backyard, within its storied roots, once cradled more than earth.

Auggie, the spirit, may slumber in the fluff of eternal clouds, but Auggie, the essence, spins the golden thread that stitches the miser’s heart back together amidst the holiday cheer. Thus, in the careful step of a phantom poodle, so concludes a vignette of Auggie’s Yuletide miracle, a patchwork of devotion, whispers, and a legacy of love interwoven with the festivities of Pawsburgh’s enchanted realm.

The End.