Hey there! 🐾

Just a heads up, I’m the tail-wagging mastermind behind the secret howl-iday bash at Pooch’s Pub. Led a crew of canine comrades to throw a surprise party for the humans. Big success! Lights, laughter, and plenty of undercover cuddles with my human. They’ll think it was all a dream, but we shared a moment, as whispery as a snowflake. Now, time for a chicken-topped snooze in our grassy kingdom.

Catch you on the flip side,

Jules 🌟🐶🎄

P.S. Keep this under your collar! 😉🤫

Listen to the story here

There’s a frisson in the air, the kind that tickles your whiskers and flutters through Pawsburgh like a prelude to carols. That’s right, the countdown to the howl-idays has commenced. And me? I’m Juliet, boxer extraordinaire, with more personality in one paw than most canids muster in their whole body. That’s what humans would say if, ya know, they could see Pawsburgh. They can’t, but you can almost hear the gasp, a collective intake of expectation.

I trot down Affenpinscher Avenue, the festive lights strung above reflecting in my keen amber orbs, casting elongated shadows that seem to whisper, “Juliet, you scamp, what brings you to Pawsburgh on a day like today?” A visit to The Woofy Bakery, that’s what. Not for me, you understand, I’m all about that chicken life. It’s for Maximus. The old Golden has a sweet tooth – or a sweet canine, I should say – and the bakery whips up these doggy donuts that’d make you sit, stay, rollover, and recite doggerel poetry for a nibble.

I push open the door with a nudge of my nose, and ol’ Maximus already sat stately amongst the whiff of cinnamon and pumpkin. Bella twirls by, as light on her paws as fairy floss. I slide Maximus the parcel; he gives it a sniff, tail thumping like a metronome set to the rhythm of gratitude.

Next, over to Hound’s Hotdogs, because Rocco’s sniffing out the holiday special. That Beagle can hunt a truffle in a hurricane and identifies the mistletoe by scent alone. Trust me, for a Beagle, he’s festive chic. We yap about the goings-on, and Rocco’s nose twitches. “You smell that?” he asks and before I can answer, he’s darting off following a scent trail only his nose can plot.

Evening approaches, and the vibe shifts. Time for the main event. We’ve planned a surprise soirée for the humans at Pooch’s Pub, because, let’s face it, they think we’re at home, chewing furniture or whatever it is they think we do. Not hosting holiday bashes and donning tiny Santa hats.

So, we gather; a congress of paws and fur and wagging tails. We’ve got Dalmatians by the DJ booth, a Schnauzer mixing ‘Virgin Tail Wagger’ cocktails. The place is buzzing like a hive of bees if bees were into eggnog and carol howling.

And there she is, the diva, the prima, my human. She’s chatting, unaware I’m even in this realm. But that’s the secret we keep, that delicate dance on the edge of dreams and wakefulness. I’m the architect of her stories, the unseen whisper of doggie wonders.

It’s almost midnight when I nuzzle her hand goodbye, already yearning for the return to my grassy kingdom where I’ll no doubt recount this tale by the flicker of the fireplace. Tomorrow, she’ll believe it was all a sweet dream, memories frosted in holiday sugar.

As I scamper home with the stars our only audience, a subtle breeze flirts with the notion that maybe, just maybe, she’ll remember a snout, a tail, or the echo of my bark – an affirmation of our intertwined fates.

Oh, who am I kidding? She’s gonna wake up with zero recollection of tonight’s shenanigans and blame the eggnog. I’ll get an extra cuddle, she’ll get my silent, loyal companionship, and we’ll both revel in the warm embrace of a holiday filled with ineffable love.

Because, at the end of it all, in the cotton-soft snowfall of the closing year, the dog’s song is a simple one: we love, we play, we return – so long as the wind whispers Pawsburgh, and chicken tops the dinner bowl.

The End.