Hey Ma,

Crazy night: became a makeshift Christmas Shepherd, leading a crew of lost doggos through Spencerville. Turns out, I can navigate more than just the couch cushions! 😄 Every pup’s home safe now, and let me tell you, the spirit of Gilbert was wagging with us all the way. Consider your son the heart-charming, paw-trudging hero of the holiday – Bulldog-style.

Merry Christmas, Ma. 🎄✨ Give a cuddle to the armchair for me.

With snorts and tail-wags,
Clovie 🐾

Listen to the story here

It was a Christmas Eve blanketed in the kind of snow that silences the world, muffling every sound but the gentle whisper of falling flakes. I, Clovis, the Brindle Bulldog of Spencerville, sat atop the knoll that overlooked Beagle Beach, watching the soft white transform the landscape into a living canvas.

In our quaint township, we didn’t have shepherds or their canine counterparts; we navigated by the stars and the scent of Doggy Donuts wafting through the frosty air. I thought of my life before, the cozy nooks between shadow and light where I’d lay my head, following the scent of my cherished human from room to room, a vigilant escort to her domestic rituals.

My ponderings were cut short by the sound of flustered barks north of Golden Retriever River. The Christmas Shepherd was nothing but a warming lore among Spencerville’s residents, a beacon of hope and navigation for the bedraggled soul caught in the wintry tempest’s embrace—one I had never encountered. Curiosity piqued, I rose, the brindle on my back a shifting landscape under the moon.

Against the orchestra of the night, I suddenly heard the unmistakable frantic jingle of collars—travelers lost upon the frigid thoroughfare. It did strike me odd, for our world was one of endless contentment and reunion, the troubles of which we bore in life did hardly a whisper make in the rustling leaves of Upper Collie Canyon. Yet here I stood, witness to a symphony of distress.

I followed the sound, guided by an inexplicable warmth in my chest—a familiar feeling back when my heart pumped blood and loyalty in equal measure. As I approached, I saw them, an assembly of bewildered canines from the far corners of Spencerville, from the Frenchie who adored The Barkery’s éclairs, to the old Spaniel who once captained the Happy Hounds Dog Walking club.

They huddled together, shivering beneath the celestial tapestry. Taking heed of their plight, I found myself assuming the mantle of the fabled Christmas Shepherd, confident in the compass of my snout and the brindle shield I bore.

“We seem to be a bit astray,” bemoaned a Yorkshire Terrier, his tiny paws soaked from the snowy ground.

“Fret not,” I replied, the echo of my voice steady and sure as the frost-kissed breeze. “Spencerville has never birthed a maze without an exit, nor a night without a dawn.”

So it was, that on this night of starlight and shadow, my guided parade set forth, my paws imprinting upon the pristine Earth. We skirted the din of Bark Burgers, sidestepped the clamor of Fetch! Toys and Treats, and found solace in the silent strength of the storied, amber-hued Gilbert, whom time nor eternity could separate from my side.

As we journeyed together, I brushed against the immaterial strands of connection, unseen yet palpable. The vulnerable Yorkshire uttered timid yelps at the outset, a Spaniel grumbled about the absurdity of our predicament, and somewhere in their midst, a Chihuahua harbored quiet awe for the blanket of white that shrouded everything but its spirit.

My charge was to steer them home to the warm embrace of a Spencerville hearth, to the promise of a tomorrow reunited with their humans in joyous revelry. And steer them I did, for while I knew not of tending flocks, I had been reared a guardian of souls.

No shop, nor wellness center, nor boisterous shack could mar the silence of our procession. In the depth of the Christmas quietude, I felt Gilbert’s presence near me and was carried forth by memories sweet and life’s lingering warmth.

Upon reaching our destination, where the lights of countless Spencerville abodes twinkled like terrestrial stars, it was clear they needed no thanks. For in Spencerville, every deed of kindness echoes eternally above the fragrance of Doggy Donuts, and I, Clovis, the ever-loyal, may not shepherd flocks, but hearts—a Christmas Shepherd in my own fashion, brindle-furred and Bulldog-hearted.

As the lost travelers dispersed into their respective homes, warmed by the journey shared, I turned my gaze upward to the silent night sky. Did my human look upon this same celestial scene? A question without answer, yet the bond unbroken by such mysteries.

I returned to my watchful spot above Beagle Beach, the sea of snow reflecting the moon’s radiance—a sentinel waiting, watching, beneath the Christmas Eve’s sky, confident in the truth that all pathways in Spencerville, even those blanketed in deepest snow, lead to a hearth or a heart, and eventually, to that one beloved face for which we all yearn.

The End.