Yo, just a quick bark to say I’ve been channeling my inner Cupid today in frosty Pawsburgh! Managed to turn Rags’ love saga into a Christmas miracle under Barker’s twinkly lights. This brindle romance maestro scored another win for love and laughter. ❄️🐾🎄 – Chico, the Tail-Wagging Matchmaker

Listen to the story here

Ah, the first snow of December was a jubilant occasion in Pawsburgh. I, Chico, felt the old pull on my heartstrings as the town glistened under a pristine, white blanket, and the festive aura of Barker’s Bakery was simply irresistible.

The day started with me lying under the tatty quilt my band of street performers used to carry. I listened to the village stir, bark by bark, woof by woof, a canine symphony welcoming the holiday season. In the confines of the snug little home, stories of my escapades would rhythmically dance off the humans’ tongues. But today’s tale would write itself under the watchful gaze of my half-cocked ear.

I trotted first to Mutt Munchies for a spot of breakfast alongside the usual suspects. Marmalade tapped the window in greeting, or perhaps it was cautionary – his whiskers always seemed to sense trouble before it brewed. He had that knack, you know. Beatrix cooed from above, less cautionary, more observant. She didn’t miss a beat, and neither did I.

The morning’s gossip? Old Rags, the moppy sheepdog from Schnauzer Street, had a run-in with the paradox of unrequited love. You see, Rags had fallen paws over tail for Lady, the coiffed poodle from The Pampered Pooch Salon. It was drama, tragedy, passion – it was Pawsburgh.

I decided to meddle, as I often do; there was a sprinkle of canine Cupid in my blood. Ambitious? Sure. But what’s life without a bit of theatrics?

Bounding toward Garnet Greyhound Grove, my trusty blue ball in tow, I barreled down like the spirit of Christmas future, all raucous and fervor. My muscles flexed, weaving a brindle pattern against the vastness of the white. The chase? That was my art form.

“Chico!” called a voice, as regular as clockwork. Peter, the butcher, held out his hand with little chicken morsels. I thudded to a halt, the scent cloaking my senses like a saintly halo. “You’re up to no good, I can tell!” he chuckled.

“No good?” I replied with a pant, “I’m off to spark a Christmastide romance!” With a wink and a nibble, I was back to my quest.

I found Rags outside The Pawfect Training Center, downcast eyes resembling murky puddles. And there I launched into a soliloquy of encouragement, straight out of a Paddy Chayefsky script. Only, more bark than talk.

“Buddy, love isn’t just a frilly bed to lie on; sometimes it’s the chase, the game of fetch with your heart. It’s the leap and the tumble.” Rags perked up as my words, perhaps, reached his sentimental soul.

With gusto befitting the season, Rags, Lady, Marmalade, Beatrix, and I canvased Pawsburgh from to Weimaraner Woods to Wagging Whisk, each moment choreographed like a frost-laden ballet. It was laughter and mirth, it was love in its most playful guise. And the ribbon atop this gift of a day? Lady’s reciprocated affections revealed under the twinkling lights of Barker’s Bakery.

As I nestled into my evening quilt, the whispers of my human’s love stories folded around the room, filling every corner with warmth. And I, Chico, brindle Pit mix extraordinaire, smiled. For in Pawsburgh, in the lead-up to Christmas, love and friendship always had the merriest of finales. Even for the likes of a rascally envoy such as myself.

The End.