Hey there,

Just boarded the wackiest train ride, the Polar Pooch Express! Imagine me, Ollie, the ultimate Tail-Chaser, mingling with furballs in a snow-capped Yuletide adventure far from our cozy digs. Grilled chicken, yuletide camaraderie, and a dash of four-legged shenanigans – it’s a howling good time. Tell the vacuums to wait; this dog’s got Christmas tales to bark when I’m back!

Sniffs and wags,
Ollie 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

I suppose you might call it a caper, the way I, Ollie, a White Bull Terrier of no little consequence, found myself aboard the Polar Pooch Express on that illustrious Christmas Eve. If Pawsburgh were a book, I’d be the mysterious footnote that keeps you flipping back to find more.

Anyway, the evening had begun with the usual hum of activity, my burly legs carrying me through Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, a place glistening like a snowglobe shaken by the clumsy paws of a Saint Bernard. I had never been too fond of the cold, but the soft hum of a nearby creek always soothed my jitters. Even in this chill, I suspected it was gleefully burbling somewhere beneath the frost.

My ears twitched as I strolled past Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store, where trinkets twinkled like puppy dog eyes begging for attention. I spared them none, my sights set on the tantalizing scents of The Woofy Bakery, wafting through the quiet chatter of four-legged friends swapping tales of narrow escapes from the dreaded vacuum cleaner back on Earth.

Eyes envious, they watched as I rolled my rubber ball across the cobblestones, its trusty presence a comfort in the alien landscape of winter revelry. I had chosen the Polar Pooch Express adventure from a plethora of invitations. “Celebrate with your kind,” they said. “Smother yourself in camaraderie and canine joy,” they touted. But let me confess – the siren’s call of that particular eve was not the companionship of my fuzzy brethren. No, it was the promise of grilled chicken, seasoned to perfection, served somewhere north of expected delight.

Crossing the threshold of Paw-lickin’ Pancakes, its festive air kissed by the scent of maple syrup and buttered dreams, I nearly capitulated to pancake paradise. I’m no Dickensian orphan, but I dare say my knees went a tad weaker at the prospect of a syrupy binge. Self-control is a trait one must admire in others, for in oneself it is sheer torture.

I reveled in the hushed silence of freshly fallen snow, the twinkling lights of Shar-Pei Shores glancing off icicles that hung like daggers set out to murder my good time. Across the lane was the much-spoken-of Doberman Dunes, its mounds repurposed as miniature snow-capped mountains for yuletide escapades. I bare my teeth at the thought, less in ferocity and more in that peculiar grin I reserve for the rumored thrill of adventure.

“Ollie,” a voice as smooth as the inside of marrow bones beckoned. It was Scarlett, a crimson-furred Dachshund with eyes that twinkled like Orion’s belt, minus the hunter’s tragic fate. “You’re heading to the Express?”

“The same,” I replied, affecting nonchalance.

“Now, don’t be going ’round causing a ruckus,” she warned, though her eyes sung verses of amusement.

“Perish the thought,” I countered with a bow.

Aboard the Express, nestled among a burgeoning brotherhood of snuffling snouts and wagging tails, I found a camaraderie that previously eluded my solitary paddles in creeks and triumphs of rubber ball conquests. Yet, it wasn’t just the heady scent of chicken that filled my senses – but love, pure and exuberant from all my fellows, their tales more captivating than any Christmas cracker joke.

As the train weaved its magic through the galaxies of snowflakes, the spirit of Yuletide finally caught this wary Bull Terrier’s soul. With each chug-a-lug, each tale told, each new friend made, I was blissfully adrift in the wonders of the season, my heart expanding like a bloated tick, but with far more jolly connotations.

The Polar Pooch Express? A grand racket, indeed. And I, a willing passenger, a silly sap, victim to the charm of a White Christmas shared with my four-pawed chums. My caretaker would hear about this fantastical tale, no doubt embellished with the spice of myth and the mischievous glint in my sly canine eye.

The End.