Hey there!

🐾✨ Just dashed through Pawsburgh on a mission to sprinkle a dash of Yuletide joy on our local grump, Old Gruffy. Turns out, the curmudgeon just needed a dash of my signature sass and the squeak of a toy duck to rediscover his Christmas spirit. Who knew? One small squeaky duck, one giant leap for dog-kind’s merriment! Catch ya later for some tail-wagging tales!

🎄❤️ Kate Spade

Listen to the story here

It was a brisk evening in Pawsburgh when I, Kate Spade—the Yorkshire Terrier with an affinity for the finer things in life—found myself drawn to an adventure that would tickle my whiskers with frost and warmth alike. I had just concluded a delightful stroll along the scintillating shores of Shar-Pei Shores, my glossy coat shimmering in the shimmering reflection of the moon’s glow upon the water.

I must confess, my little heart felt as plump and content as a Christmas goose, a stark contrast to the humbug hound living at the cavernous crest of Jade Jack Russell Junction. Old Gruffy, a curmudgeon of a canine who found more pleasure in growling at shadows than joining in our jubilant jaunts, had become the talk of the teapot.

How perfectly peculiar it is, I pondered, that one so surrounded by the camaraderie of canines could persist in such lonesome bitterness. Distaste for the communal belly rub or a shared scooby snack, I understand; but to snub the spirit of our sparkling Yuletide? Unfathomably wretched!

Thusly inspired by a rather unexpected twinge of compassionate curiosity—mixed with the usual hint of mischievous charm—I decided upon a yuletide quest most queer. I’d pierce the shroud of Old Gruffy’s gloom with the daintiest dagger I possessed: plucky joy!

I pranced past The Groom Room, where the scents of sudsy shampoos and the soft hum of dryers promised beauty and warmth. I waved a dainty paw to Max and Fifi, who were poised outside The Howling Husky Hardware Store, entangled in a debate over the correct amount of tinsel for a doghouse. “I’ll tell you all about it later,” I yipped. Adventure awaited, and it would not be polite to keep it lingering on such a nippy night.

Undaunted by the frosty climb to Gruffy’s austere abode, I kept the image of creamy poutine from Pup’s Poutine, and the savory sizzle of bacon strips from Snout Snacks to warm my spirit. The citrusean scent that lingered around the grumpy hermit’s domicile was the first line of defense, designed to repel the any who approached—but to a pup with a penchant for peculiar plots, it was a siren song.

I sneaked into Gruffy’s lair with the subtlety of a whispering wind, finding him—a ragged ball of snarls amid a sea of scowls—beside a pitifully unadorned tree. “Good evening,” I chimed, hoping the cheer in my voice was enough to light the room brighter than any bauble could.

Gruffy’s grimace grew, the corners of his mouth seemingly allergic to upward turns. “What’s all this then?” he gruffed, as I advanced with one of my squeaky ducks in mouth, offering it alight with the hope of shared merriment.

Silence, save for the distant echo of the Pup’s Paella patio festivities.

“It’s Christmas, Gruffy! A time for tails held high, for warm embraces and shared laughs by the bay at Basenji,” I professed with fervor, my top-knot bouncing as if to accentuate every word.

His eyes, those twin lumps of coal, softened as the warmth of companionship thawed what seemed a season’s worth of permafrost. Ever so slightly, they glimmered, reflecting a hundred Christmas lights from a hundred Pawsburgh dens.

With a hoarse chuckle that I fancied the prelude to a smile, Gruffy took the duck. “You’re a peculiar little thing, Kate Spade,” he grumbled, his paw quivering with the strange new weight of a potential plaything.

And then, a squeak—tentative, questioning, a herald of hesitance turning to mirth. Old Gruffy, the grump with a heart reputedly two sizes too small, found his rhythm in the rubber duck’s melody. We played till there was only Panting and the soft sound of friendship unguarded.

So, in the end, who was to be more changed that Christmas in Pawsburgh? The crusty cur who learned to chuckle, or the sassy Yorkshire Terrier who discovered that the best present one could give was a moment borrowed from one’s own cherished peace, to place gently in the paws of another.

The End.