Hey, it’s Max. Rough night turned thrilling adventure—boarded the Polar Pooch Express, made friends with a Husky, and sniffed out the North Pole itself! Can’t wait to tell you and Mrs. P over slobber-sloshed water bowls. There’s more to this tail-wagging tale, but for now, just know this trip unleashed more than just dreams. Catch you at sunrise! 🐾🌕🚂 – Zigzag Max

Listen to the story here

In Pawsburgh, every loose brick and whispering wind carried a tale, and mine? Let’s just say it’s one for the dog-eared books.

That night, the silent howl of a distant winter’s wind shook me awake. Mrs. Penelope, bless her soul, was fast asleep, leaving me to my own devices. I made my usual rounds – a silent guardian in the slumbering coziness of my abode – until a shadow loomed over the ivory engravings of the Pawsburg Bakery. It was an actual shadow, not a metaphor, for once.

I quietly slipped out, dancing on tiptoes, or, well, the equivalent. If you’ve seen one Boston Terrier on stealth mode, you’ve seen them all. The moon, a silver serving platter for the stars above, guided me down to Saluki Sands, where an unexpected visitor awaited.

“All aboard the Polar Pooch Express!” The conductor’s bark sails over the wind. And honestly, what self-respecting dog with an ounce of adventure in his sniffing heart could resist? Naturally, not me.

Malamute Mountain was on the horizon, a majestic kingdom of frost, when I met him, the conductor, a grand Husky with eyes reflecting the Aurora Borealis. “Ticket, young sir,” he called out. With a guest list including Bruno and Luna, I figured Old Ted slipped me in as a plus one – being the unofficial guardians of Pawsburg’s many mysteries had its perks.

“Off to the North Pole, eh?” I said, as the train chugged through Kelpie Keys, the sea mirroring a thousand Christmases.

“We’ll arrive by first light,” the Husky informed me, his breath forming scrolls of frost in the air. Conversation was sprightly, much like walking into Terrier Tacos during a lunchtime rush; you’d better be quick and spicy with your words.

“The North Pole, isn’t that just an old dog’s tale?” I asked, my ears prickling at the thought.

“A place as real as the zigzag on your ear, Max,” he said with a wink, whisking away to leave me awash in mystery and the soft echoes of jingling sleigh bells.

The journey wasn’t all marrowbone-and-biscuit easy. I faced the window and saw myself, brown and white fur wrapped in the warmth of possibility. The zigzag on my ear twitched, almost vibrating with anticipation, as though it indeed was a map guiding me to treasures untold.

As the train burrowed deeper into the frosted countryside, it hit me. This wasn’t just a train ride. This was my venture into the heart of winter’s embrace, a journey into myself. Fueled by all the chicken treats and lacking all the broccoli, I was on a quest for that thing that danced just beyond the horizon – a place where Max, the dog from Pawsburgh, could be more than just a cookie, more than just Max.

The train whistle howled a duet with the wind, shattering the stillness as we approached the glimmering gates of the North Pole. Even the squeaky hedgehogs I left behind would have reveled in the jolly tumult of this revelation.

“Here we are, Max. The North Pole,” the Husky announced, his own mirth mingling with the magic of the moment. I stepped out onto the snow, each flake a reminder of adventures yet unfurled.

So, to you, my dear friend, I share this little vignette, this snapshot of a Boston Terrier’s midnight caper. Because sometimes, just sometimes, the greatest stories are the ones you drift into on the cusp of a winter’s dream. And as I’ll tell Mrs. Penelope when she wakes, every patch of grass, chewed hedgehog, and forbidden vegetable led to this – my Polar Pooch Express.

The End.