Hey Mom,

Today I went from sleepy pooch to detective Houndcule Poirot, sniffing out mysteries in Pawsburgh. The Christmas bell went missing – talk about a real ruff day. But my nose pulled a Sherlock, we found it behind Collie’s Cuisine, chicken-lured crime I tell ya. Saved Jingle Bell Bark, became a hero, and all I got was a lousy ball (and town’s adoration, but who’s counting?). Promise I’ll avoid actual storms though.

Licks and wags,
Stormy

Listen to the story here

As the first light of dawn trickled into Pawsburgh, a sense of uneasy anticipation electrified the air. Or perhaps that was just the static from my fur after a brisk sleep. Stretching out each paw one by one—okay, yes, admiring my own patches of shadow that stirred alongside me—I shook off the night’s slumber, already sensing today was not going to be any old walk in the park.

My ears twitched at the sound of hurried paws approaching. It was Baxter, panting heavily, his eyes wide as saucers you’d find stacked at Canine Cafe after a rush hour of drooling dogs and spilled kibble.

“Storm!” He howled, voice raspy in the crisp morning air of Papillon Promenade. “The bell — it’s gone!”

I blinked once. Twice. A Great Dane of few words, I preferred to let my stature do the talking, but even this news jolted a word out of me: “Missing?”

“Yes! The Christmas bell, from the festival tower! Without it, the Jingle Bell Bark won’t chime!” Baxter managed between gasps. His tail, a frantic metronome, ticked to the rhythm of emergency.

A quick glance upwards and – heavens, he was right. The tower stood silent, empty. I could smell the uncertainty from here. Or was it Bella, with a whiff of unconditional love and her signature lavender shampoo from The Groom Room?

“It’s not just a bell,” I rumbled, the factual cornerstone of a Sorkinesque dialogue set in motion, “it’s the symbol of our community, our togetherness, the joy of Christmas itself.”

Licking his snout anxiously, Baxter cast his gaze floorward, kicking up a mini dirt cloud. “What do we do?”

We? This was a job for Pawsburgh’s canine citizens, alright. And one White with black patches Great Dane in particular.

A bead of rain splashed atop my snout, and I grimaced. “First, we sniff out clues,” I declared, as if the very words could barricade the impending downfall.

Fearing the worst but hoping for the best, we trotted to Setter Shore, the rain tiptoeing after us, a reminder of my only real dread. But there was no room for fear, not today. Past Canine Couture Clothing’s display of cozy Christmas sweaters, past the sweet allure of Pup’s Parfait, our noses worked overtime.

Sure enough, there it was, just outside of Shar-Pei Shores: the feint but distinctive tang of roasted chicken.

“Jackpot,” I muttered, remembering the power of communal effort. “To Collie’s Cuisine!”

The bell lay heaved against the dumpster at Collie’s Cuisine, shining even in the absence of sunlight. Lured by a roast chicken feast? Only in Pawsburgh…

A symphony of cheers erupted as we returned, my gallops shaking the earth with purpose, the rain now just a pattering applause against my coat.

The Christmas bell was hoisted back where it belonged, the clangor of its first toll swallowed by the barks of joy from my fellow dogs. Community, friendship, the wagging tails of unity standing against adversity — that was the true spirit of Christmas.

Storm, the Great Dane, once a mere majestic presence on the meadow, now stood a symbol of Pawsburgh’s heart, leading a pack of canine heroes who’d saved the day. My friends, my town, and – as the shower of joyous barkings drowned out the patter of rain – for a brief but golden moment, all was right in the world.

And as I nestled into a warm corner at Canine Cafe, a tennis ball by my paw and the taste of victory (in lieu of roasted chicken) in the air, I let out a contented sigh. “Happy Jingle Bell Bark, Pawsburgh,” I whispered. And not once did I think of bananas.

The End.