Hey you! Just wanted to let you know I’ve been playing fairy godpuppy in Pawsburgh. Guided the Scrooge of a human I live with, Mr. O’Sullivan, from being a penny-pincher to the patron saint of Christmas cheer. ‘Twas me, Starlie, the Goldie with festive spirit, unleashing the giving soul in him. We turned grinchy grimaces into grateful grins and found the true magic of the season. Tail wags and holiday hugs! 🎄✨ – Starlie

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Ah, the cozy charm of Pawsburgh under the crystalline blanket of December’s first snow — there’s nothing quite like it. It was the season of giving, or so the tales of two-legged tradition tell us, a time when hearts warmed in cold climes. But I digress, for this is my tale, mine — Starlie, the Golden Retriever with a coat kissed by autumn herself.

‘Twas a fortnight before the day humans call Christmas, and I, in my element, bounded through Eskimo Estuary with the grace of an athlete in her prime. The twinkle of icicle-laden eaves on Sapphire Schnauzer Street caught my eye as I passed, pondering the perfect present for the O’Sullivans.

Now, indulge me, dear listener, whilst I regale you with an account of how Mr. O’Sullivan, my human, a man with pockets as deep as the Mariana Trench yet as closed as an oyster’s shell, began to metamorphose. It began inconspicuously enough, a curt nod to a neighbor here, a clipped ‘Good day’ there. Where once his eyes reflected the steel of his safe, this season they seemed to search for something, perhaps a key to a door he knew not he had closed long ago.

One icy morn, as Bella — that tiny fluff of gregarious gossip — and I strolled to Rottweiler’s Ribs for a nibble of their delectable marrow bones, we chanced upon Mr. O’Sullivan haggling over a holiday turkey at The Doggy Depot. “Five dollars a pound? It’d be cheaper to rear the bird myself,” he bemoaned.

Bella snickered a laugh that sounded like jingle bells on fast forward. “Perhaps the spirit will yet thaw the frost,” she jested, as we watches his furrowed brow soften at the sight of an orphaned pup outside, shivering beside the shop.

Days wore on, and so too the ice within Mr. O’Sullivan. Max, ever encyclopedic in spirit, postulated theories I cared not for — I concerned myself with simpler joys, like the perfect arc of a tennis ball against the cerulean sky. Yet, it was hard to miss my human’s transformation; it spoke louder than the clamor of Doggie Diner at the luncheon hour.

You see, when Christmas Eve arrived, Pawsburgh was abuzz with festive cheer, enough to lift the heaviest hearts — or open the tightest wallets. And there, in the midst of our holiday fair, stood Mr. O’Sullivan, his hands no longer grappling for gold but gifting it away.

I wore my best collar that night, ribboned by the O’Sullivan children, as we ventured forth to deliver parcels and victuals to needy pups around Pinscher Plaza. Each knock on weather-worn doors raised tails and spirits alike. When at last, a small scrappy ball, not unlike my beloved tennis sphere, was placed gently into the paws of that same orphaned pup, I knew — oh, I knew — that the holiday magic had found its mark.

The change was not ephemeral, a mere holiday fancy. It bore the permanence of starlight, the endurance of an age-old tale. As I curled up, that Christmas night, by the hearth’s gentle glow, Dolly the dolphin in paw and the O’Sullivans at peace in their slumber, I fancied I could hear the faintest echo, the dulcet tones of human and canine song intertwined.

And so, fair listener, think kindly of your own Scrooge and remember: within the most guarded chest beats the possibility of change, the hope of giving. For even the coldest winters give way to the touch of spring, and the frostbitten heart, under the right circumstances, can bloom with the warmth of the merriest season.

The End.