Text message: Hey Mom, it’s your son, Scoobert. Turned our town into a doggy Christmas fairytale. Found a drum, started a parade. They call me The Little Drummer Pup! Still, I’m just your Roscoe.

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Rumbling through the alleys of snow-kissed Spencerville, I found my beat. My paws, as rhythm-bound as my heart, patter-pattered the drumming of the season’s tune. A crisp wind carried the scent of evergreens and the gentlest hint of chaos—yuletide mischief cloaked under the guise of peace on earth.

This is the time of year when Spencerville becomes something out of a fairy tale, except, imagine if you will, that all the fairies had wagging tails and dreams of bacon dancing in their heads. Each four-legged soul, yarning for their human kin, but not forlorn – oh, no. We’re revving up our own brand of festivities.

You see, I’m no saint. Heck, I’m not even what you’d call a high-brow entertainer. But when the holiday season rolls in, I bring out my secret weapon—a rumpty-tumpty-thumpity drum.

It started one frosty eve when ol’ Blue, my brindle brother, found a leather-bound circle, worn out by the adventures we’d rolled it through. We didn’t notice then it was the makings of something magical. Sasha, with her four pounds of not-so-silent night energy, eyed the relic, as if daring me to spring a tune.

I remember the night well. The stars flickered like fireflies in a mason jar, and the air was thick with the whispers of the White Westie Woods. It was as if the pines were hushing each other, awaiting something they didn’t yet understand.

With nothing but my unschooled paws and the soul of a wanderer who’d chased one too many sunset shadows, I tapped. To my surprise, the drum sang. It wept and laughed all in one breath, each beat a pulse in the quiet belly of the night.

From Husky Hill to Maltese Meadow, the sound wove through Spencerville, turning heads, perking ears. I became the pied piper of tail wags, leading a parade of paws to the rhythm of my simple gift. Beasts of all breeds, hounds and herders, terriers and toys, they all found a step in my haphazard symphony.

We ended our march where the lights blazed brightest, out in front of Tail Waggers, the joint bustling with clamor and clatter. The usual chatter of who chewed what and the philosophical debates over whether that ball really needed fetching ceased. Yes, for a moment there, it all stopped for my drum.

I’m not one for the spotlight, but that drum, it wasn’t about spotlight or doing tricks for treats. It was for them. For every wagging friend whose world was once a human’s caress and a whispered promise of ‘good boy’. That drum was the unspoken words between us and them. A signal flare to every owner, wherever they might be, that we were still here, still their loyal companions, still beating the drum of life until that grand reunion.

Blue leaned against me, a fort against the shower of applause that followed, and Sasha, well, she danced like she had springs in lieu of paws. And I, mere Roscoe, felt like more than just a drummer pup—I was the heart of Spencerville, keeping time until time itself would see us through to another place, another chapter.

And so, there I was, a simple red Lab pit mix, with the world at my paws and a drum that could sing the blues, belt out joy, and, for one whimsical season, unite a town of furry hearts in the symphony of the holidays. The Little Drummer Pup, they’d call me, and by damn, I’d wear that title like the white patch on my chest, drumming away until the day the beat would guide me home.

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