Hey Mom,

Epic night in Pawsburgh where I helped Rudolph, our shiny-nosed Retriever, turn from zero to hero and save Christmas Eve! We navigated foggy shenanigans, led everyone to the feast with his glowing nose, and I got my chicken fix. We’re reminded that every dog indeed has its day. Rory’s tails are wagging!

Cuddles and crunchies,
Rory 🐾🎄✨

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Ah, ’twas the sort of foggy eve that could shroud one’s snout from one’s own eyes. Pawsburgh, my usual haunt, was cocooned in a pea-souper; a perfect setting for our tale. You see, as Beagles are wont to do, I had nosed my way into a doozy of a pickle, right in the heart of Pinscher Plaza where visibility was down to a dog’s whisper.

I’d been tailing a particularly enticing scent through the winding alleys when I’d stumbled – quite literally – over Rudolph, the young Retriever with a nose so luminous it could light up the doghouse at Barker’s Bakery from a block away. On any normal night, such a nose might have been marvelously convenient, but poor Rudolph was as popular as a cat at a kennel, his unique feature having made him the butt of every canine crack in town. Though, under these foggy circumstances, his glowing proboscis was proving more useful than a pocket full of liver treats.

“You know, Rory,” he said in a tone that was equal parts sheepish and hopeful, “I feel outcast, but maybe tonight I can change that.”

“In Pawsburgh,” I replied in my most Douglas Adams-esque lilt, “being an outcast is as common as a bulldog with a snore. But every dog has its day, and who’s to say that today isn’t yours?”

The night was crisp, the kind that saw one’s breath and bits of fog engage in a tango of the vapors. It was the sort of fog that, had it been any thicker, you’d have needed a steak knife to cut through it. Cavalier Cove was aglow with the soft luminescence of various canine-maintained lanterns, a guiding galaxy of stars at the terrestrial level. But the fog was an ambitious adversary, swallowing the light, leaving us bereft of direction.

There we were, in the midst of Pawsburgh’s Christmas Eve fete, a gathering that would have made Mr. Dickens wag his tail vigorously at its sheer conviviality, were he a dog, which, to the best of my knowledge, he was not. The central tree stood grand and tall, dressed in baubles and bones, but hazed over by the dogged mist.

The always-plucky Pepper, a Dachshund with more courage than a lion with a superiority complex, tugged at my coat. “Rory, the fog, it’s ruined the tree lighting! No one can find their way to Doberman Dunes for the feast!”

Enter Rudolph. His nose, a beacon in the soup, flickered with the uncertainty of a dog about to be asked whether he prefers tummy rubs or ear scratches. With decisive bravado, I might add, he approached the forlorn crowd.

“Follow me!” barked Rudolph, the words hanging in the damp air like a promise of imminent dinner. And in an instance, a procession was formed, a decidedly doggy conga line, snouts to tails, as we marched towards the dunes.

I, being of beagle sensibilities and infinite appetites, had only one true north—Retriever’s Restaurant, where chicken in every conceivable form was rumored to populate the table of the Christmas feast. But to get there, we all needed Rudolph.

His nose gleamed like a fresh-cooked ham under the butcher’s spotlight, a sight so heartwarming that even I could almost disregard the lack of tangible ham present. The procession went on, past the Wagging Tail Bookstore, until the Doberman Dunes emerged from the haze, the smells of chicken (glorious chicken!) hitting my olfactory senses with the grace of an aromatic symphony.

The feast, my dear friends, was a triumph, only equaled by the newfound respect and admiration that showered upon Rudolph like a summer’s rain. He had become, overnight, not an outcast, but a hero.

“Rory,” Rudolph said later, over a bite of well-earned and inexplicably Brussels sprouts-free chicken, “perhaps this nose of mine isn’t so bad after all.”

To which I replied, between mouthfuls of my poultry passion, “Rudolph, my friend, today you’ve not only guided us to a feast, you’ve led yourself to the most coveted spot within the pack.”

And there, dear reader, under the clear skies of Pawsburgh and amidst the camaraderie of canine kin, we celebrated far into the night, the spirit of the season snug within our hearts, as snug as a Beagle curled in his bed, dreaming of tomorrow’s capers.

The End.

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