Yo, Bonnie! It’s ya boy Auggie – the merry mutt of Pawsburgh. Just spun a sweet Yuletide tale here. Filled with comrades, crepes, and Christmas cheer, we turned the blues into ballads and got the whole town wagging in warmth. There’s magic in every paw print, and love lighting up the lanes. Remember, the bonhomie’s just a bark away. Stay howlin’! 🐾🎄 – Auggie 🐕

Listen to the story here

Dear compatriot of the furred persuasion, it is I, Auggie, at your service! I write to you in midst of the festive air so thick with scents of pine and joy, you could chew it like a bone! Pawsburgh, the secret gem where us canines reign in the absence of our humans, is abuzz with Yuletide preparations, and I, the robin-hoodlum of sorts in these parts, find my tale today interwoven with the heartstrings of the season.

On an eve not so long ago, as Jasper dreamed of sugarplum fairies in the mortal realm, I traipsed down Maple onto Birch and slipped beyond the cloak of human perception to our enchanted town, the place where every bark counteth and tail-wag hath a story to tell. Hoisting my good ol’ blue ball under my arm—for what is a knight without his sword—I gallivanted toward Ruby Rottweiler Ridge with spirits high and stomach grumbling for a tale only Pawsburgh could sate.

In passing, the glimmering lights of Corgi’s Crepes beckoned, but, my friends, do not be mistaken—for the tales were not of crepes, nor of the chewy, syrupy delight at Woof Waffles, but rather of love, pure and unadulterated, as is our wanton canine way.

As I reached the Ridge, who should I encounter but Bonnie, that beagle of considerable lung, whose howls could summon the moon and whose heart pined for her human companion Betty, present now only in tender thoughts and Bonnie’s melodious yearning.

“Well I never,” I exclaimed. “If it isn’t the songstress Bonnie! What ails you this chill eve?”

Bonnie replied not a whit, but her countenance spake volumes—the loneliness a dog feels when their beloved human is as absent as a bone buried and forgotten. I sat beside her, musing that Misery loves company, just as fleas love hounds, and vowed silently to help navigate her ship through this sea of solitude.

Together, we ambled down to Newfoundland Nook, meeting every manner of mutt and noble breed; the tapestry of Pawsburgh’s loving web spun from Chestnut Cocker Courtyard to the gates of The Pawsome Pet Pharmacy where the stewards of dogdom procured potions for vitality and verve.

At Puppy Plate, serving salmon chunks so divine I near forgot my disdain for lemons and the accompanying contortions, we lunched. In that hubbub, what to my wondering eyes did appear? A scruffy terrier named Tucker, pointedly avoiding the ever-jubilant uproar of The Tail Wagger’s Tailor next door, where canine finery was spun.

Tucker, dapper in spirit if not in garb, spake with Twainian drawl, “Auggie, m’dear, what’s this I hear ’bout a beagle in despair? Surely, we can rouse some Christmas cheer!”

Truth be told, a whimsy struck me then. “What greater joy than love conjoined—if we can’t have humans near, let’s spread dogged cheer!”

So, we plotted with Pawsburgh’s motley crew, from Whiskers, the wise of purr to the comical spaniel dashingly clad in Canine Couture Clothing, to fill the air with such love and camaraderie that no beagle, nor terrier, nor brindle mixed breed should feel abandoned.

Christmas in Pawsburgh thus unfurled, with tails interwoven, love twixt beasts and absent friends adrift in dreams of their return. And Bonnie, the pealing bell of our crew, led a carol so resplendent, the humans, in their slumber, smiled in sync with our ballads.

So here I sit, Auggie, chronicler of paws and heart. Pawsburgh bedecked in Yuletide wreath, filled with symphonies of solidarity, a testament in every paw print to the love that wags the world. And as night’s curtain falls, my tale concludes, a whispered bark on the wind: “Love, actually, is pawsitively all around us.”

The End.