Hey there!

I’ve been feeling low, but just had a wild dream voyage with a stardust Greyhound angel! Turns out my tail-wags and bone crusades have been a silent anthem for the O’Sullivans. I’m more than just their furry friend; I’m the unsung hero of our pack. Time to shake off the blues and bring some more joy! Let’s grab Terrier Tacos soon – my treat? 😄🐾

Tail wags and happy barks,
Sarge

Listen to the story here

I must confess, amidst the twinkle of Christmas lights and the crisp chill nipping at the tip of my nose, I found my spirits sinking lower than a hound’s belly. You see, even a Pit bull like me, Sarge, with a chest mark as bold as my courage, can’t shake off the blues every now and then.

That Eve, as the O’Sullivans busied themselves hanging stockings and singing carols off-tune, I slunk away unnoticed. You wouldn’t fault a chap for seeking solace in Pawsburgh, the secret place only we dogs know. It’s where tales wag their dogs, not the other way around.

I trotted through Jade Jack Russell Junction, head hung, my usual gusto as absent as the steak chunks I so adored. Not even the scent wafting from Shepherd’s Shawarma could stir my jaded appetite, soured by unseen sorrows.

“Serious as a Shih Tzu in a snowstorm, aren’t we, Sarge?” chirped Luna as she bounded up to me, her coat glistening under the Yule lights strung across Chestnut Cocker Courtyard. But my ears, though receptive, were not pricked with joy.

“I’m just—well, I’m not sure, Luna. I feel more Saluki Sands than Pooch’s Pub tonight,” I admitted, my tones flat.

It was then, as I mused upon my canine conundrum, that an ethereal glow emanated from behind the Fetching Feline Pet Emporium. Lo and behold, a flurry of twinkling stars condensed into a being, a guardian angel in the guise of the noblest Greyhound, the fur on her coat shimmered with stardust.

“Sarge,” she spoke, her voice the melody of tranquility itself, “heed my tale. You’ve cast quite the paw print upon your world.”

A silence fell, as thick as the winter fog, and she whisked me off on ghostly paws to the homestead of the O’Sullivans.

“Oh, would you look at that,” the spirit nodded towards a scene where young Timmy O’Sullivan, tearful and frightened during a storm, found solace with his head buried in my sleek black fur.

We then spectated as I, with gusto, charged through the living room, a rubber bone gripped in my jaws, with Joe guffawing heartily, the stress lines on his forehead softening like wax under the flame of joy.

The angel guided me next to a vision of Max, the old Beagle, his eyes glistening with the sheen of wisdom. “Your stories give me a second youth,” he had once mumbled, his bark tinged with gratefulness.

And even Whiskers, ah, the cat with the rule of iron paw, admitted to enjoying our playful squabbles down by Saluki Sands, a confounded yet fond smile hidden beneath her feline scorn.

With the tour of my unacknowledged wins brought to an end, the Greyhound gazed at me, the cosmos mirroring in her eyes.

“Every wag, every romp, every chewed bone enriches their lives, molds their hearts. You, Sarge, are the unsung hero of your pack,” she whispered, her voice receding like the tide going out.

And out she faded, leaving naught but a lingering sparkle where she had once stood.

I awoke on the hearth, my dreams as woven with the Greyhound’s wisdom as the Christmas sock with red and green. Luna was nuzzling my side, her eyes aglow with concern.

“You’re back,” she said with a wag of relief. “How about Terrier Tacos, on me?”

I looked into her beaming face, and the glint returned to my eyes, no longer mirrors of restlessness, but the lively spirit of Christmas itself. And I realized, indeed, it’s a wonderful bark.

The End.