Hey🐾, it’s Rueben the Ruminator! Just hopped off The Polar Pooch Express after a tail-waggin’ trip to the North Pole. Unpacked mysteries like they were treats and found magic in every snowflake. Made pals, sniffed out secrets, and kept my trusty Frog snug. Every bark of this journey weaved a story to warm us through winter. Stay pawsome! 🐕✨ – Ruebs

Listen to the story here

On a frost-kissed evening, with stars glittering like the fervor in my garnet eyes, I found myself amidst a scurry of paws and wagging tails at Pawsburg Station. The grand clock tower chimed in harmony with the excited barks around me, announcing the imminent departure of The Polar Pooch Express. The coal-fired beast breathed steam into the frigid air—a vessel of scents promising adventure.

My paws itched with the cold and excitement, and The Frog, my tired yet ever-present comrade, was securely tucked under my smoky velvet coat. Here, in the Northern Quarter, adjacent to Emerald Eskimo Estuary, with its unspoken tales woven into the icy air, a tale of my very own beckoned.

“Welcome aboard, Rueben Stiles!” the conductor—noble and resolute like a St. Bernard—bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls as he ticked off names from his list.

My tail, autonomous as always, flicked in recognition and affirmation. “Ah, yes! The inescapable destiny of the rails calls me forth!” I mused aloud, forever the philosopher, with a sparkle in my eyes mirroring the whimsy of this nocturnal reverie.

My stubby legs propelled me into a vestibule decorated with garlands and red bows. The Emerald Eskimo Estuary faded into blurs of glittering greenery as we embarked. “Onward to the Oracle of the North Pole. What visions await?” I whispered, more to myself than to The Frog, whose ear absorbed my every musing.

I took a window seat, smudging the frost with my snout to get a clearer view of the twilight-kissed landscape rolling by.

“Rueben, my dear chap,” an Old English Sheepdog by the name of Benedict Barksly called from the opposite seat. “First time on the Express?”

“Aye, Benedict. You see, every bone in my body quivers with the call of the unknown. I’ve gnawed on many an antler, unraveling the mysteries of marrow, but the marrow of the earth—there’s a conundrum worth the endeavor!”

He chuckled—a throaty, dignified rumbling. “The spirit of the season knows no better sherpa than curiosity, young Rueben.”

As homes and scenery dissolved into white, the train pressed on, singing a clanking lullaby that could soothe even my long-standing aversion to Vacuums.

The onboard affair was mirthful, an ambient warmth contradicted the frigid world outside. The din of conversation amongst my fellows swirled around, equally nourishing as a bowl of kibble from Rottweiler’s Ribs.

A chime signaled the arrival of the dining car. I ambled slowly, my nostrils leading the way toward the banquet. In the presence of fine dining—the iconic Poodle’s Pasta, perhaps, or a savory something from Bark-n-Bite Bistro—I remained, ever the aficionado, keen to explore. Yet, only the name of a cherished dish would get whispered in The Frog’s ear…my little act of rebellion against the gossips of Pawsburg.

The hours melded together, each minute a stitch in the tapestry of stories this night would weave. Friends old and new mingled like the metling pot Pet Partners Pet Supplies promised, their tales infusing the train’s carriages with life.

As the clock announced the witching hour, a glow appeared on the horizon, ethereal and alluring as the art of cuddling on a sunlit day. This was it, the North Pole in all its majestic, elusive charm.

“It’s magic, Rueben. The sort of thing that keeps the ember of youth alight in the oldest of souls,” Benedict murmured.

I, Rueben Stiles, nodded—a gesture of kinship to the journey, to Pawsburg, to the season—my heart thrumming in tune with The Polar Pooch Express. And above all, to the stories—the kind that linger long after the last snowflake has melted.

The End.