Hey Mom! 🐾 Just a quick pupdate: turned out I’m the furball hero Spencerville never knew it needed! 🦸🐶 I used my trademark tail-wags and a tiny red ball to melt a hermit’s frozen heart this Christmas. 🎄❤️ Who knew holiday cheer came in a pocket-sized package called Spike? Also, turns out I can rock a festive sweater better than Santa himself. 🎅 Miss your belly rubs! 🐕💖 – Spike, the Heartwarmer

Listen to the story here

In the tinsel-draped, light-festooned nook that Spencerville becomes around Christmas, you’d think that peace on Earth and goodwill toward men—and dogs—would be a given. But up on Western Husky Hill, amidst the holly-jolly hoopla, there dwelt a two-legged curmudgeon who’d make a garden-variety Scrooge look like a holiday enthusiast.

They called him Herman the Hermit, and as the world decked the halls, he huddled in his lair, shunning festivities with a snarl that could curdle eggnog. Now, I’d heard about this fella through the hushed gossip cycling around Bone Appetit, and naturally, I was intrigued. I pictured him: a Grinchy aspirant, without the green fur but with an equal opportunity disdain for cheer.

Enter me, Spike—a dog with flair who can rock a festive sweater like runway couture. I had enough holiday spirit to power the Christmas lights at Shih Tzu Stadium, and I made it my personal mission to thaw Herman’s frosty heart.

I took my first stealthy approach one late December evening, armed with nothing but a wagging tail and my signature look of irrepressible optimism. I scaled Western Husky Hill, which let me tell you, for a creature of my modest leg length was no minor feat.

I arrived at his door, and with a bark sharper than the jingle of bells, announced my presence. Herman answered the door, his frown etched so deep it could’ve held quarters. Yet in the face of my Chihuahua charm offensive, I spotted a tremor of bewilderment in his scowl—like he’d witnessed his socks performing a musical number.

“Hey there, big guy!” I greeted him. My voice likely sounded more chipper than the carolers at Doggy Delight, but sincerity was my weapon of choice.

Herman blinked, unaccustomed to such pint-sized audacity. “What…what are you doing here?” he asked, suspicion lacing his voice as if it were poisonous tinsel.

“Just thought I’d spread some canine Christmas cheer!” I declared, and then, before he could protest, I nosed my way inside. Because what’s personal space when shared warmth is at stake?

Herman’s place, predictably, was as barren of joy as a diet is barren of flavor—with the notable exception of a singular, sparsely decorated tree, squatting in the corner like an afterthought.

I surveyed the room with the confidence of a dog who knows his way around a chew toy. Eyeing the abode, I let out a polite ‘woof.’ Translation for the less dog-lingo savvy: “Man, we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

The human Grinch stood there, frozen, as I darted through his home, sniffing out potential. Suddenly, I had a brilliant idea. “Follow me,” I urged, beckoning with a glance. As expected, nothing—not even the prospect of a hermit dog in need—could stir his stony legs.

With a cunning plan unfurling in my mind, I dashed back out into the crisp evening, confident he’d be peering through the curtains. I made a show of diving into the snow, scrabbling around in a joyous explosion of powdery drifts.

Sure enough, a shadow loomed at the windowpane.

Each night I returned, intensifying my campaign. Even involved Max and Bella in what I dubbed “Operation Heart-warm.” We’d tug sleighs brimming with good vibes up that hill, performing an improv theater of friendship and tail wags.

It was the peanut butter of strategies—nothing about it could be disliked.

Then, one evening, magic struck, as delectable as an unguarded jar of Skippy. I confronted Herman with my ultimate weapon: the squeaky red rubber ball. It tumbled to his feet, a round, inviting enigma.

Warily, curiously, he picked it up. And I swear, there was a spark in those weary eyes that wasn’t a reflection of fairy lights. He threw it. I fetched it. And so our game began.

Herman hesitated, then laughed—a sound I suspect was as foreign to him as bananas are to my palate. From that shard of a moment, the ice around his being creaked and moaned, till finally, it cracked.

His laughter echoed around the room, filling it with something sweeter than the treacle of over-sentiment—the genuine mirth of conversion.

It was subtle, imperceptible to the unmindful eye, but palpable to one well-versed in the language of canine charisma. That tiny ball ricocheted more than across the floor; it rebounded off his walls, off his heart, stirring long-dormant tides of joy.

“You’re not an ordinary dog, are you?” he beamed down at me.

I tilted my head, a knowing twinkle in my eye. “Just a dapper little fella with a penchant for peanut butter and mending spirits,” I shot back with a bark.

Who would have thought? A grumpy hermit’s heart rekindled by a cheerful dog’s relentless warmth. But, hey, unexpected plot twists are kind of my jam.

So, as Spencerville shimmered under a blanket of snow, Herman the Hermit discovered that joy can come on four legs, with a wagging tail, and sometimes, just sometimes, it squeaks.

The End.