Hey Mom & Dad,

Just a quick tail-waggin’ update from your furball, Jethro. I’ve been working my magic on ol’ Winters—turns out my bulldog charm’s as good as cheese for melting hearts! We’ve gone from daily scowls to sharing snacks and doing good around town. I’m more than just a pet; I’m the tour guide on his journey from grumpy to great. Who knew a little nub-wagging could lead to such a happy tale?

Fur-ther regards,
J-Dawg 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

The day old man Winters tramped through the door, snowflakes clinging to the worn seams of his coat like bits of memories refusing to thaw, I knew it—a tale worth waggin’ about was going to unfold. His face, like a ledger of scattered lines, carried more frowns than smiles. Jethro, that’s me, trotted over, bravely sniffing the wintry air trapped in his boots. I wagged, he sighed—our daily dance.

In our bountiful Spencerville, Winters had his own pocket of “Bah Humbugs,” where echoes of laughter skittered away like nervous squirrels. But I’m no regular Bulldog—playful, loyal, full-heartedly friendly. Each day with Winters began with my nub wiggling in anticipation, his heart just one joyous moment from being uncorked.

As the holiday season swirled around us with more vigor than the blizzards outside Choco Chihuahua Castle, I made missions to soften him: a loving nuzzle against the hem of his trousers, a ball gently dropped between his slippers, and patient sit-downs by the Best in Show Photography window, absorbing the warmth he denied himself.

“Hoarding happiness till it rusts, eh?” I’d muse silently, finding my solace in simple pleasures of cheese dreams and tender-hearted humans. My nub bobbed in a slow cadence of hope, waiting for the ice inside him to melt drop by drop.

Winters, the curmudgeon, who spat at the very idea of Fishy Bites’ festive feasts, softened under the weight of persistent warmth and coziness. A belly rub, a shared sliver of cheese, his hand unclenching just enough for my jowls to rest upon. My brindle fur—markings of my passionate crusade.

It was a snowy evening, the kind where snowflakes seemed to be the only things alive, that Winters had his epiphany. Wrapped in a scarf, I’d never seen him wear; he trudged toward Bone Appetit for a pet food drive he’d grumbled about just last season.

I walked by his side, my shadow hugging his closely. We Bulldogs don’t lead or follow; we companion. As he dropped bags of kibble into waiting bins, a smile broke like the first sunrise over Spencerville. Jethro, once a mere observer, now a bold-hearted companion on Winters’ journey from miserly to mightily kind.

We’d find our way back, with him recounting old tales by Retriever River. I knew then, he didn’t only need me, he needed the love I was the vessel for. I believed this Spencerville, a haven for learning and relearning, was indeed a place of magic.

For love is never lost, not truly. It bides its time, in dog parks and human hearts, behind stubborn gates, and within silent shadows. And I, faithful Jethro, would be a mirror for his budding heart—and a guardian to the love blossoming within.

Old man Winters wasn’t changed by grand gestures or mighty winds of fate. But by cheese bites, wagging tails, and a bulldog’s loyalty that stands mightier than the mightiest Spencerville legend. He learned, as all eventually do in this quaint town, that joy once shared multiplies into an outpouring that overcomes even the staunchest Scrooge.

The End.