Hey Mom,

Solved a Christmassy mystery in Pawsburg’s fog with Rudolph, the retriever with a lighthouse nose! Rescued éclairs, spread Yuletide cheer, and alas, found camaraderie over solitary snootiness. All in a day’s work for this fashionista furball. Miss you and the farm!

Tail wags and puppy kisses,
Coco Chanel 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

Ah, what it is to be moi, Coco Chanel of the Peekapoo persuasion, regaling you with my latest escapade in our hallowed Pawsburg. Tis a charming hamlet, populated by my kin, where we frolic in mirth while our humans suspect nary a detail.

On this particular foray, the sun had tucked itself behind a woolen blanket of fog, one so thick you could lose your snout in it. A day that would constrain most, but for me? It would prove fortuitous, unveiling a slice of destiny only the pampered paw of privilege could touch.

I remember it thus: having departed from my farmstead domain, clad in the essence of sophistication that my black-and-white attire commands, I ventured towards the allure of Samoyed Square. The fog was heavy, a veritable soup in which one could ladle out dollops of murk. And so thick, that one might toy with the notion of carving out a niche and relaxing upon a chair of mist—a preposterous thought, I assure you, but the whimsy is persistent.

Now, I have never had the fondness for the common clutter of canine company that frequents our town, but this day brought forth an unexpected camaraderie in the form of a young retriever with a nose so…how shall I put it? Luminous, yes, that’s it! A brilliant beacon! Rudolph, an outcast like me in his unique way, seemed the only soul adrift in the square.

I must say, any disdain I possessed for the exuberant masses fell away, for his radiant snout cut through the fog like a lighthouse for the lost, and I thought, “This dog, he has something—something marvelously uncomprehensible.” Destiny, she is a peculiar weaver of tales.

“Why, Miss Chanel,” he spoke, with the deference one employs when addressing royalty—though I must remind myself I am a “dog,” merely in technicality—”the fog is such that not a soul can find their way to the Paw-tisserie for their customary morning éclairs.”

A mission, then, upon the table! A holiday mission, no less! For Christmas was nigh, and spirits mustn’t falter. And dare I say, even I could not bear the thought of a day void of the splendid aroma of warm pastry.

“Rudolph,” said I, my voice a melodious trill, “lead us there, won’t you?”

And there we were, embarked upon this critical mission, his nose a glowing chalice against the grey. The streets of Pawsburg became our board, and we, mere pieces gliding towards delicious victory.

From the Doggy Depot to Pup’s Poutine, from hounds to heroes, we gathered our companions, a merry procession following Rudolph’s radiant snout. I might have fancied myself akin to a general, were the affair not so fervently festive.

What joyous uproar upon our successful arrival! The fine denizens of Paw-tisserie heaped praises upon us, with Rudolph receiving the laurels befitting an explorer of uncharted lands.

Ah, it was not cheese, but camaraderie that sent me into tail-wagging ecstasy that morn,(shared, I dare say, with my popcorn penchant). And though my usual preference is solo recollections, this story cannot be thoroughly relished without mention of my noble brother Rocky, who, realizing himself without his usually aloof sister, bounded towards the throng. Together, we shared a moment of unity, and Christmas came early to Pawsburg.

There you have it, my account of the fog that bound us, a tale worthy of the storybook town of Pawsburg. Though back on the farm my heart remains, for a brief hour, I was a beacon alongside a retriever, lighting the way towards a Yuletide delight.

So, it is with a wink and a bounce of my top-knotted mane that I bid adieu till next we meet. Remember, in Pawsburg, a story is never far, and sometimes, the fog is but a curtain before the stage.

The End.