Hey Dad,

Just so you know, I’ve been promoted from neighborhood watchdog to Santa Paws! Led my squad through Pawsburgh, delivering joy (and squeaky toys). Turned every tail wag into a jingle bell and learned that giving fetches more happiness than chasing tails. Call me Oscar Claus – I’ve had quite the tail-wagging adventure!

Sniffs and licks,
Oscar 🐾🎅

Listen to the story here

My name is Oscar, and I’ll have you know, I’m no average canine. I’m the one who struts through the black-and-white cookie-cutter world of Pawsburgh with more flair than a squirrel at a nut festival. So it’s no wonder that when the iconic hat of Santa Paws went mysteriously mislaid, it was I, the consummate Border collie cross with the wit of Mel Brooks and the mystery-solving nose of a bloodhound, who was elected to step into the big red boots.

It was a typical misty-eyed morning in Pawsburgh when I took the leap from average Joe to “Ho ho ho!” Here I trotted, my chest puffed out, manning the sleigh like a seasoned pro, my dearest sidekick Max and the ever-ravenous Ollie by my side. “Alright, you mugs,” I barked, with all the command of a director on set, “we have an all-you-can-eat buffet of goodwill to spread, and I am NOT laying an egg on this one.”

My first stop? Weimaraner Woods, where the trees twinkled with a thousand fairy lights, casting shadows that danced like Fred and Ginger, and the air smelled of fresh pine and mischief. The good dogs of Pawsburgh needed me, and gosh darn it, I was going to deliver if it was the last thing I did. I zipped through the woods, Max holding tight to the reins of the sleigh as if they were his dear life, while Ollie kept his muzzle open, probably hoping treats rained from the sky by some Christmas miracle.

We hit Amber Akita Alley, where the tinsel on the lampposts shone like the sequins on a Vegas showgirl’s costume. That’s where Mrs. Beagle’s boy Timmy lived, a little four-pawed runt who just last week lost his beloved squeaky toy. “Fear not, young Timmy,” I bellowed with all the poise of a Broadway lead, making a dramatic entrance down his chimney, “for Santa Paws… erm, I mean, Santa Oscar is here!”

Oh, the look in Timmy’s eyes when I placed a brand-new squeaky Croc under his tiny tree—it was better than the standing ovations at the end of “Blazing Saddles.” It was like I hit the jackpot, the bell rang, lights flashed, and suddenly, I understood that Christmas jig.

Off we flew to Samoyed Square, conquering the frost like it was just another walk in the park. We landed atop the rooftops with more grace than I ever showed during my clumsy pup days, playing secret Santa to every good boy and girl, and maybe even some of the naughty ones—because let’s be real, everyone deserves a shot at happiness.

By midnight, Panting and proud, we retreated to the warm embrace of Puppy Plate, joining fellow four-legged denizens for a well-earned feast. They raised their bowls to me, “To Oscar, a true Santa Paws!” And as we dug into a spread that put Labrador Lunch and Paw-lickin’ Pancakes to shame, I realized something monumental: I was more than just a dapper dog with a penchant for puzzles—I was a bringer of joy, a giver of treats, and a darn good Santa Paws.

“So, how did I do, Max? Ollie?” I nudged my furry companions as we sprawled in the comfort of The Doggy Depot’s plush beds, our bellies full, our paws intertwined.

Max, ever the tough critic, simply said, “You keep this up, kid, and we might have to make this gig a regular thing.”

And Ollie, ever the foodie, only smiled dreamily, clearly envisioning endless biscuits in his future. As for me? I sighed contentedly and thought, “Maybe this Christmas gig ain’t too shabby.”

Goodnight, Pawsburgh. And to all, a goodnight smooch!

The End.

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