Hey Mom and Dad 🎄,

Just doing a quick paw-drop to say I’ve been having quite the adventure! Ebenezer Houndson, my grumpy human counterpart, is finally melting faster than snow in Spencerville’s heatwave of kindness, thanks to yours truly and some ghostly persuasion. We’re now sparking joy, tossing coins to the orphans, and guess what? I scored an extra salmon treat beside my droids! Call me the Christmas Cupid or the Pug That Saved the Season. 🐾

XOXO,
Jas

Listen to the story here

It was the season of twinkling lights and warmth, a stark contrast to the ever-chilly temperament of a certain Mr. Ebenezer Houndson, my master and the town’s most notorious miser. It is I, Jasmine, a pug with the wisdom of ages etched upon my gray-masked face, who found herself in the heart of this curious transformation.

I remember it all too well; the yuletide was upon us in Spencerville, as unmistakable as the savory wafts from Dog-gone Good BBQ. Yet, in the stoic composure of Houndson’s mansion, nary a festive spirit stirred.

That evening, as I nestled by the hearth – my vigil undeterred by the sparse crackling of meager flames – Houndson’s withered hands clutched at ledgers and coins, his heart as unreachable as Silver Siberian Summit during a blizzard. It was my daily ritual to lay at his feet, a silent companion, my gaze often drifting to my cherished playthings, R2 and C3PO, remnants of a time when Houndson, too, had known joy.

In a picaresque twist of fate, an uncanny chill swept through the room, as if the Dalmatian Desert itself had breathed upon us its nocturnal frost. And then, they came – phantoms, as real as the Silver Siberian Summit, but spectral in their shimmering countenances. Messengers entrusted with the task of thawing the icy caverns of Houndson’s soul.

First was the ghost of Spencerville past, bearing familiar scenes of a sprightly Mr. Houndson, joyously tossing frisbees at Western Labradoodle Lake, a time when laughter was not such a rarity. Each memory tugged at his frosted heartstrings, and I sensed a tremor of emotion skittering across his stern facade.

Succeeding this was the ghost of Spencerville present, which spirited us away, or so it seemed, to The Barkery where canines of all breeds reveled under the humorous glow of festive lights. There I glimpsed the very epitome of festive altruism, the giving of marrow bones without the expectation of reciprocation, and it seemed to plant a seed within the frost of Houndson’s spirit.

Lastly came the phantom of what was yet to come, a bleak, lonesome future, as desolate as the unfathomable depths of the pool that so haunted me. In it, I saw Houndson, alone, his fortune as redundant as a chew toy to a pup deprived of play.

A profound silence claimed the night as the spectral visitants receded into the ether. I fixed my ancient-sage eyes upon him, as he, Mr. Ebenezer Houndson, sat, suddenly aware of his own mortality and the immeasurable value of companionship.

The change was as gradual yet as undeniable as my own advances towards the disdainful swimming pool. As the days ushered in the Christmas Eve, Houndson, much like a pup learning to trust the water, took cautious steps into generosity. Silver coins became gifts for the orphans; his hearth blazed brightly with yuletide cheer, and even I, the humble pug, found an extra salmon treat nestled beside my guardians R2 and C3PO.

And so it was, a story penned in the actions of a man reborn. As Spencerville’s festive chants rose into the crisp air, Houndson found redemption. And I, his loyal Jasmine, bore witness to a heart’s unprecedented metamorphosis from stone to flesh. Our story, a parable of transformation, continued to weave its way through the annals of Spencerville, a whisper of hope carried on the wind, past The Doggie Daycare, beyond The Howling Husky Hardware Store, and into the hearts of all who believed in second chances.

The End.