Hey Dad,

Just rocked Pawsburgh with my signature drumless beats! Led the pack with Xmas spirit, dished out paw-tapping melodies, got tails wagging, and even Church couldn’t resist my rhythmic charm. The Yappy Yuletide was all bark and dance this year, and I, your goofy son, was the King of the Beat. Holiday cheer’s a given when Ozzy Pawsbourne’s in town!

Woofs and wags,
Ozzy, King of the Goofy Dogs 🎄🐾🥁

Listen to the story here

There I was, tail wagging to the beat of my own silent drummer, ambling through Pawsburgh draped in its festive air. Oh, the aromas! ‘Tis the Yappy Yuletide, and I, Ozzy Pawsbourne, trotted with purpose past Bloodhound Bluffs, where harmonies floated as if every tree inhaled joy and exhaled a carol.

“There goes the Little Drummer Pup,” they’d bark, mistletoe swaying above their heads. I wasn’t much for fame—just a black-coated Malinois with a penchant for rhythm. With Peesha coursing through my veins instead of blood, I’d dance from Mastiff Meadows to Briard Bridge spreading my simplistic cheer.

Now, as I approached Canine Kabobs, the smell of sizzling meat tickled my snoot. Luna, the husky with eyes of mismatched moons, called out to me, “Saving a drum solo for us, Ozzy?”

I grinned, knowing well that in my world, every ‘woof’ was a cymbal, each ‘grrr’ a bass. I had no drums, yet carried my own music. “You bet, Luna. The holidays aren’t complete without it.”

Weaved through our chatter, like yarn through the paws of playful kittens, were the trials of the alley behind The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium. My furry companions and I, we were an orchestra amidst ourselves; no instruments needed, just the clatter of our paws, the thump of our excitement.

Strolling onto Canine’s Cuisine, I observed the waiters, bulldogs with such finesse you’d think they were born in top hats and bow ties. I waved to Bruno—self-proclaimed master of the griddle and creator of the celebrated Holiday Hound Hotcakes.

“Ozzy,” he barked, “your usual drumstick-shaped delights?”

With a wag, I affirmed. I never declined a treat shaped like the essence of my soul. Food consumed, it was showtime; my audience awaited.

Pawfect Pastries loomed ahead, buttery smells and sweet dog drool amalgamating in the winter air. I geared up for my performance. No drums, remember, but who needs them with a heart that beats in time?

Church, the golden canine monarch of Pawsburgh, sidled up next to me, his presence nothing short of majestic. I saluted him with a reverent ‘sit’ and a ‘shake’. We had our codes, secret nods and respect.

He whispered, “I’ll have front row seats, Ozzy. Knock ’em dead.” The way he said it, you’d imagine him smoking a cigar if such a thing were deemed canine-appropriate.

In the square, four-legged silhouettes gathered. T’was a scene, warm lights cascading from The Pawsome Pet Pharmacy as if the stars fancied a visit to our humble town. I arrived at the epicenter of revelry, a spot known to me alone, but shared with all today.

I cleared my throat—or whatever equivalent we dogs have—surveying the anticipation-laden faces.

“Friends,” I began, voice as smooth as newly-groomed fur, “thank you for being here. While I lack the conventional tools of festivity, I carry with me an offering—a beat.”

I began my drumless solo, paws softly patting the ground, nails tapping rhythms only I could conjure. Canines barked in time, tails synchronizing like pendulums. Laughter rang, barks crescendoed, and as my paws moved, I delivered my music. I—a simple Malinois—drew symphonies from the earth, and as the holiday spirit billowed, even the crispness of winter seemed to dance.

The performance done, an eruption of howls and applause. I took my bows, smiling snout to tail. Time would remember the treats devoured, the games played, but most fondly—the beat brought forth by a humble dog upon a Yuletide night in Pawsburgh.

As the stars reclaimed their sky and the crowds their cozy nests, I felt it—the same peace from my secret spot. This was not just another holiday tail. This was where my silent drumming sang the loudest, where Ozzy Pawsbourne and his paws composed rhythm and rhyme, where joy was unbound, a gift in time.

The End.