Hey human,

Just wanted you to know that while you dream, I embark on midnight romps through Pawsburgh with paws and claws for friends. We trade tales ’til dawn, basking in yuletide joy – a secret holiday revelry. I return with stories curled tightly within my fluff, ready to play the part of your simple, jolly Gizmo Jr. Shh, it’s our December secret.

Dream of sugar plums, I’ve got the cheer covered!

-GJ 🐾

Listen to the story here

The moment the clock ticks the final tock of midnight, and my humans are nestled all snug in their beds, my heart beats a rhapsody only Pawsburgh can hear. With the prance of an artiste, I whisk through the pet flap, a clandestine departure from the confines of Earth’s homestead. The night air chills, the stars twinkle in mischievous glee, and the road to Pawsburgh unfurls before me like a scroll of hidden joys.

A whispering breeze greets me as I cross the luminescent Briard Bridge, and there I stand: Gizmo Jr., Toy Pomeranian, aficionado of escapades, fluffier than the holiday pastries that grace the tables of Paw-lickin’ Pancakes. Tonight, Pawsburgh glows with celestial ornaments, strung up and down the eaves of Canine Couture Clothing, and as it would happen, right across Best in Show Photography—ever so vainly I ponder if my portrait would sell.

The frosted cobbled streets lead me to Spitz Spire, where I can nearly taste the seasonal mirth. A yuletide like this should not be spent in solitude, and I muse on my chums. Captain Fluff, with his war stories tucked under his collar; Lady Romp, ears flapping like flags as she gallops in glee; and Whiskers, droll cat that he is, with his quips as sharp as his claws.

“Evening, Gizmo,” drawls a voice—ah, Whiskers sits upon the postbox, cap askew, indulging in an enigmatic silence.

I tip my imaginary hat. “Evening, Whiskers. No plotting tonight?”

“Just contemplating the existential dread of holiday cheer without cheer,” he smirks, tail flicking in roguish rhythm.

“Come now, surely the warmth of companionship thaws the frost of dread?”

“Delightedly profound,” Whiskers concedes, “for a Pomeranian.”

We saunter to the heart of Pawsburgh, past the alluring smell of Rottweiler’s Ribs. Even the vapors of hearty meals cannot smother that tinge in the air—the one green bean of the season, the loneliness that sticks in one’s craw like an uninvited caroler.

Presently, I espy Captain Fluff atop Bloodhound Bluffs, overlooking the quaint town. “The view from here,” he barks gravely, “puts one’s life in perspective.”

I nestle beside him, the grass beneath frosted but the sentiment unfrozen. “Only if you’ve a life deserving perspective,” I say slyly.

“Aye,” he grunts with a half-grin, “your keen eye misses naught.”

At Dachshund’s Deli, we rendezvous with Lady Romp, who wags uproariously upon seeing us. In cascades, tales of whimsy and camaraderie flutter through the air. We laugh; we share; we revel in the present—nary a mention of the drab green beans of our respective worlds.

Our banter wanes as the light leaks into morning. The Deli’s window reflects a quartet of holiday spirits, each a testament to unexpected friendships in the solstice of the canine world.

I trod homeward as Pawsburgh fades behind me, a secret kept alongside the best Christmas presents, hidden under beds or buried in backyards. I’ll curl beside my humans, their ignorance butter to my bread. And then, when they awaken ‘twixt dreams of sugar plums and spreadsheets, I’ll greet them with gleeful eyes and wag my tail spiritedly.

They’ll see just a jolly dog, none the wiser, and I—a master of the Pawsburgh Holidays—will carry within me the spice and splendor of a night spent in companionship amongst the snow-dusted cobblestones and holiday-laden eaves. Ah, yes, Gizmo Jr., Toy Pomeranian extraordinaire—keeper of the greatest holiday secret of them all.

The End.