Hey Dad,

Just a quick update from your adventure-hound Russell. I’ve turned elf assistant in the North Pole, helping my buddy Jingles find his family and reignite his Christmas mojo! Together, we transformed the city into our own festive playground and nudged a lost elf back into the warm hug of his kin. Call me Irving Bingbong, the elf-dog detective!

Woofs and wags,
Russell 🐾🎅

Listen to the story here

As I tell you my tale, a brindle-striped bulldog and a story of Yuletide cheer, know that my spirit is brimming with the same anticipation my human used to feel on Christmas morning. But let me gallop ahead of myself, for every story has its beginning and mine starts with a simple, yet peculiar twist of fate.

I am Russell. And though I once called the earthly bounds of Spencerville home, I now find myself in the frost-kissed realms of the North Pole. You see, I assist an elf named Jingles. Jingles, with his cinnamon-scented hat and a dabble of freckles, is as much of a Christmas soul as one could conjure, yet he harbored a forlornness that even the sparkle of tinsel couldn’t illuminate.

Our journey began one particularly shimmering night when Jingles, who’d been reading too many Wish Lists and not enough letters from his own kin, lost the twinkle in his eye. “Russell,” he sighed, settling beside me. “What say we embark on an adventure? To find my family, my roots, and the joy of Christmas I seem to misplace when the snow stops feeling soft underfoot.”

I barked my assent. For what is a dog to an elf but the keeper of adventure and the reminder of home? Our hearts set on this quest, we slipped past the sparkling pines and candy cane lampposts and onto a clandestine sleigh that whisked us away from the North Pole.

The big city greeted us with its cacophony of sounds, much louder than the soft swooshing of sleds on snow. The towering buildings were Christmas trees missing their stars, demanding a bravery Jingles thought he’d lost amongst the sleigh bells. I nudged his elfin boot with my nose—a Bulldog’s gesture of comfort—watching as our bond became the map leading us through this concrete jungle.

Our search led us to a park, where I played the matchmaker with a Frisbee fling gone rogue. “Would you look at that,” Jingles whispered, retrieving Blue from the hands of a lad who had laughter in his eyes and a familiarity that tugged at the elf’s heart. “He’s the spitting image of Grandfather Claus without the beard, ain’t he?” Before long, stories unfurled, revealing the boy to be Jingles’ nephew.

That eve, by a fireplace in a house filled with love and photographs worn at the edges, I lay sprawled, watching Jingles rediscover the embrace of his family. In this house of mirthful chatter and love louder than the North Pole’s silence, I saw the return of his Christmas spirit.

So, with memories wrapped up neat like gifts under the tree, we returned to the Pole, hearts fuller, our sleigh a little heavier. Jingles thanked me, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. An elf and his dog, we might’ve seemed; but what we’d uncovered was the shared pulse of a Christmas rekindled, and the reminder that sometimes, all an elf really needs is his bulldog by his side, and a little reminder of home.

And there you are, the tale of an English Bulldog, and an elf named Jingles who, for a smidge of a moment, forgot the warmth of the hearth on a cold Christmas Eve. I, Russell, have the honor of being that furry friend who, with a Frisbee and a little nudging, helped turn the tinsel back to gold.

The End.