Hey hooman, just wanted to paws and tell you that today, I directed the most paw-some holiday play in Pawsburgh! I was the shining Retriever star, and even the thunder played its part! #BaileyTheBard 🐾🎄🎭✨

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It was the ninth day leading up to Christmas, or as we call it in Pawsburgh, ‘The Howliday Countdown’. I know, because I scratched another mark on the inside of my doghouse with the edge of my once-treasured soccer ball. Each day a different chap or lady from the pack brought forth a spectacle of yuletide joy, turning old traditions on their tails.

On this day, it was my turn.

I stretched my limbs as the first light of dawn leaked through my cottage window—my human, bless her, still curled up like a lamb in winter’s rest. With a solitary wink at the teddy bear, the silent witness of my secret life, I pranced out of our warm haven toward Sapphire Schnauzer Street with the determined trot of a captain setting sail.

On any other eventful morning, Ziggy would have waylaid me with tales of his night escapades, or Sasha would glide by, teasing with a challenge to race her to Pointer Pier, but today was my Howliday to orchestrate.

I nuzzled my way into The Canine Cafe, my nose guiding me through scents of cinnamon and the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat that would never find its nefarious cousin, cucumber, on my taste ledger. “Mornin’, Bailey. Ready for the big day?” barked Gracie, a poodle barista with topknots that defied gravity and a penchant for peppermint puppuccinos.

With a nod, I gathered the supplies I had ordered days before: a basket of canine confectioneries so decadent, the very sniff of them would send shivers down any tail.

I then skittered off to The Pooch Playhouse, where the stage was set for what I hoped to be an unforgettable Howliday performance. The plan was simple yet ambitious: a reenactment of ‘The Twelve Dogs of Christmas’ with costumes, set pieces, and an enthusiasm that would make the coldest snoots twitch in delight.

The rehearsals, held in the secrecy of moonlit fields, had been less than promising. Georgie, cast in the role of ‘Three French Hens’, complained about the lack of historical accuracy, and Ziggy… Well, let’s just say his ‘Two Turtle Doves’ was more ‘turbo’ and less ‘turtle.’

But when the curtain of ivy parted, something magical happened. Ziggy bounded across the stage with a finesse even Sasha couldn’t outpace. Georgie’s voice boomed in baritone melodies, recounting tales of Christmas lore so rich, you could roll in them.

I emerged center stage, ‘A Retriever in a Pear Tree’—sans pear tree, due to the art director’s interpretive decision—my coat agleam as if frosted by the very essence of the season.

The performance was a triumph, canines bark-laughing, and tails wagging like metronomes set to the rhythm of pure joy. My friends brought forth their talents, every one a gift under the communal tree of Pawsburgh’s heart.

I bowed to my audience, reveling in the afterglow of the show, when the skies darkened, and a low grumble threatened to mar our cheer. Thunder, the very antithesis of a Retriever’s delight, loomed.

But then Ziggy, clever as he is cheeky, wove the booming thunder into his ‘Drummer Dog’, and it seemed the heavens themselves played along. Paws pounded and applause followed, blending with the storm’s cadence.

Night met us with pride, Pawsburgh’s heart aglow with scenes from the Howliday show. I retreated back to my cottage, slipping beneath the covers next to my human. And there, with whispered woofs, I told her of Pawsburgh and the day the dogs danced and the thunderclaps crooned as an unwitting encore to our ‘Twelve Dogs of Christmas.’

“Yes,” I dreamed, “even thunder had a paw in our Pawsburgh pageant.”

And I closed my eyes, content with my slice of the Howliday, nestled warmly in the thought that tomorrow promised yet another dog’s tale to wag.

The End.