Yo Dad!

Guess what? Your Babyloo just became the Santa Paws of Pawsburgh! Been spreading cheer and teaching these pups about the joy of giving – it’s not all about the chew toys, ya know? 🎁 Managed to survive the itch of the Santa suit, outwit Salem the smug Siamese, and ended up being the grand finale gift at The Groom Room. A bone-free belly, but a heart full of love. Pawsburgh’s got a new Santa legend, and she’s got your nose! 🐾

Holly xo

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So it goes, in the land of Pawsburgh, where the paws of Holly trotted hither and thither like they owned the very ground they graced. Ruby Rottweiler Ridge glistened under the candy-cane glow of the streetlamps, and I, Holly the Bulldog, was about to dive snout-first into an adventure only December could concoct.

It was Topaz Terrier Town’s annual “Santa Paws is Coming to Town” event, and the role of the jolly old Saint Nick was draped upon my broad, squat shoulders. The thing is, though, I had a knack for giving. Maybe it was because I loved receiving belly rubs so darn much that the idea of spreading that sort of joy tickled me right down to my dewclaws.

Bark-n-Bite Bistro twinkled brighter than Uncle Geoff’s balding head on a sunny day, its scent wafting through the air like a siren call. But I had promises to keep and miles before I snore, so I ambled on, my Santa suit itching in places I’d need help scratching later.

“I suppose it’s up to me to teach these young pups about giving, then,” I mused, my voice muffled by the flimsy white beard clinging to my jowls. Giving, after all, isn’t just about the chew toys. It’s about the time, too. Was I not, Holly the Bulldog, gifted with a watchful eye that snorted alarm when squirrels rushed too closely?

But enough philosophy. First on my list was Blue Basenji Bay, where the waves whispered of Christmas cheer, and the pups frolicked with untamed abandon. Upon my grand entrance, a hush but for the lapping sapphire tide fell.

“Look! It’s Santa Paws!” barked a scruffy terrier pup with a crooked tail, his eyes mirrors of wonder.

With as much grandeur as my waddling could convey, I approached them. “Ho, ho, ho!” I bellowed, my heart and jowls aflutter.

Now, distributing the gifts – an assortment of bones, balls, and the coveted peanut butter delights – was secondary to the lesson at paw. With each waggle of excitement from those tails, I felt my purpose swell. It was the sort of swell that you feel in your chest when someone decides to scratch that hard-to-reach spot behind your ears.

Next stop: Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store. For what’s Santa without his reindeers, right? Except, in my world, it’s Salem the Siamese who’s the true master of herding the excitable Beagles acting as my sleigh-pullers.

“Don’t be so smug, Salem, or you’ll end up with a coal-flavored hairball,” I told him, a whip of jest in my words as I dropped off more goodies.

And just when I thought my sack was empty, I realized it wasn’t just about what’s wrinkled and crinkly inside. No, I had a trick under my fur, something only the spirit of Santa Paws could have conjured.

I settled down at The Groom Room – where the snips and buzzes forged fresh starts – and offered myself up as the grand gift: the living fount of head pats and scratches, something not even The Doggone Deli could top with their finest cuts of marbled meats.

Uncle Ron’s belly rubs, Aunt Sue’s treats, Uncle Geoff’s silly games — their kindness was my inspiration. And though my tail wouldn’t tell it, my eyes—all slobber and softness—whispered gratitude that echoed across Pawsburgh.

As the pups nestled into a sleep filled with visions of squirrels dashing, I thought of my own treasures: paw prints, memories, and the lesson of giving without expecting a bone in return. That evening, Pawsburgh slept snuggly under a blanket of Holly’s warmth and wit, dreaming of the benevolent bulldog Santa Paws who had graced their town.

The End.

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