Hey Mom,

In an unexpected twist, your grumpy boy turned hero in Pawsburgh last night. Guided a lost poodle home amid the snow, shared wisdom, and even got a dose of Christmas spirit (still prefer chicken, though). Came back safe with tales that could make tails wag. Who knew, eh?

Stay warm,
Grump Man 🐾

Listen to the story here

So it goes, in the magical town of Pawsburgh, where tails wag free and the howls at moonrise sing a chorus to stir the sleepless pups. My name? I’ve been branded Grumpy by the two-legged laughers who toss me bones and call it love. I’m the dappled crossbreed, part Chocolate Dachshund, part Labrador – a tale in the making, with a nose for chicken and a disdain for snow.

On a day when the frost lay thick like a shroud over my backyard kingdom, the dread winter Vonnegut might have dubbed “The Great White Silence,” my four-legged jaunt turned reluctant shuffle. Cocoa, my lab brother with a brain only a mother could love, lay at my side, snoring snores that could shame a snuffleupagus.

But destiny had other plans for us, for it was Christmas Eve, and the snow in Pawsburgh was a misery to all but the most ardent lovers of the damp and dismal. That night, as the houses grew silent with slumbering folks dreaming of sugarplums or whatever it is they dream about, Cocoa and I slipped beneath the veil of night and onto the streets lined with canine cheer.

Destined to rend the quiet with our exploits, we trotted toward Malamute Mountain, through Garnet Greyhound Grove, and past the twinkling lights of Briard Bridge. The smell of Spaniel Spaghetti wafted through the air, but my stomach turned at the thought of anything non-poultry.

We stumbled upon a huddled mass at the foot of Briard Bridge. It was a shivering poodle, lost and as out of place as a cat at a dog show. So it goes, the shepherd in my mixed-up blood spiced with a Dachshund’s dash of mischief nudged me forward, and against my better Grumpy judgment, I approached.

“Need a paw, friend?” My voice as crisp as the air that snapped at my fur. A glance at Cocoa and the poodle offered nothing but a set of shrugged shoulders and a wet snout.

With a wagging coil of tail, I proclaimed, “We’ll guide you through Pawsburgh. A dog’s got to do what a dog’s got to do, even on Christmas Eve.” It mattered not that my priorities leaned heavily towards chicken dreams and tug-of-war delights; on this night, I was the shepherd.

Our travels carried us through the Pawfect Pastries and past the art from The Furry Friends Gallery, which probably looked like chicken if you squinted. We amused ourselves imagining stories I’d tell the lady who calls herself my owner, each more grandiose than the last.

As we traveled, I shared my principals – avoid baths and snow, adore the sun, and revel in companionship. As for our poodle charge, well, the critter’s ears perked with each word, each story, each slip of my persona. By the time the warmth of Husky’s Hotcakes embraced us, we were three parts of a contented whole, our breaths visible in the frosty camaraderie.

Dawn was an apple-cheeked intruder as we said farewell to the poodle, who by then knew the ins and outs of Pawsburgh better than any Schnauzer could hope. And just like that, the shepherd within me folded back into the chocolatey recesses of Grumpy’s heart.

Cocoa and I returned home, sneaking through the door that smells like well-meaning captivity. As the humans awoke, I nestled into my bed, paws twitching with dreamt-up snow chases and a sense of purpose that might’ve surprised ol’ Kurt himself. So it goes – a Christmas shepherd with a tail curling like a question, a punctuation to Pawsburgh’s whispered legends. And the tale I’d later tell, spun of guidance and an unexpected kindness, would be as lovely as any chicken feast could ever hope to be.

The End.

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