Hey Sport,

Princess here, reporting from the heart of Pawsburgh’s Christmas miracle caper! Spent the day playin’ fairytailgodmother, turnin’ frosty sobs into puppy wobbles and warm hearts. Made sure a down-on-luck kiddo got a fido-friend to fill the paw-shaped hole in their family. Tales woven, loves given, consider joy officially spread. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for this jolly boxer to hit the hay!

Yours in fur and cheer,
Princess 🐾🎄✨

Listen to the story here

As I, Princess, a boxer of some snuff and distinction, stretch the sleep from my aching limbs, a particular frost nibbles at my jowls. In the crisp air of a Pawsburgh Christmas morning, there’s a tingle of magic—somethin’ apart from the usual canine caper.

It’s the kind of day where the Quartz Qimmiq Quarter is hushed, save the jingling of distant collars. I leave behind my rubber chicken sentry; today, he’s off duty. We’ve got more pressin’ matters, see, being the spirit o’ Christmas an’ all—a title unofficial but mine by paw and charm.

With a waggle of the tail and a wag of the tongue (mine, if you care to know), I twirl through Pawsburgh, where the wares at The Woofy Bakery promise scents as sweet as summer’s first bloom. But on crisscrossing Harrier Harbor, I catch the sobs of littleness—a young girl and her family, huddled ’round a flickerin’ candle in the eye of the frost.

Approachin’ with the subtlety of a boxer, I offer a “woof” soft and low, like a carol hummed under the breath. The girl, hair whispering ribbons of gold, peeks through fingers damp with salt and cold. She spies me, sees perhaps not just a pooch, but a friend.

“Why, good mornin’,” I offer in the sort of Twain-esque drawl you might expect from a seasoned muzzle. “And what, pray tell, has chilled yer cheer?”

She spills a tale, the words tripping over a tumble of woe—their first Christmas without the patter of paws, the loss of their dear family dog, a nose cold no longer against cheeks.

In such times, the warm cloak of Pawsburgh ought to wrap tight ’round its kin—’cept, the rule is, no humans in Pawsburgh. Yet, Christmas was a time for bendin’ the edges of rules, wasn’t it?

I lead ’em, hush and spirit-like, through the merriment of The Woofy Bakery, where the heady joy of Spaniel Spaghetti weaves through the air—straight to the Woof and Whisker Wellness Center.

“Now, what’s this?” you might wonder. Ah, but tenderness, I’ve learned, is oft the bubblin’ of the unexpected. At the center, a litter of yelpin’, prancin’ puppies awaits—furry bundles stumbling over one another, tails a-blur with glee.

The girl’s eyes, wide as full moons over Pomeranian Park, swell with a glistenin’. “For you,” says I, pride swellin’ grander than my chest. “A pupper to warm yer hearth and heal yer heart.”

Let me tell you, the magic then worked to a degree that’d rival old Saint Nick himself. One tiny, wobbly paw at a time, the puppies danced their ways into hearts longin’ for a salve.

By evenin’, the girl and her kin had a new tale to weave ’round their hearth, one where shadows turned to light and a boxer by the name of Princess had her paw prints set in their lives.

Later, back at Dog’s Delicacies, as Sam, Whiskers (forgive his non-canine presence), Penelope, and I recount the day’s marvels, I revel in the serene swirl of our Pawsburgh—a realm where the simple act of sharin’ warmth crafts miracles as readily as it does tails to wag.

And with a burrow into my wicker basket, a sigh escapes me, a prayer of thanks that on Woof Street, even a boxer like me can be the humblin’ vessel of joy to a world so vast. With that, my dear rubber chicken and I bid the day a fond, and quite sleepy, adieu.

The End.

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