Hey pal, just wanted to share a quick tail… I mean, tale, from ol’ Walter. Spent my holiday finding surprise cheer (and chicken!) with a scarf-donning cat & a smorgasbord of creatures at Black Bulldog Bay. Who knew joy could come purring up on four legs? Turns out, the spirit of the season is all about unexpected friendships—Spencerville style. Bone Appetit! – Wags & Woofs, Walt 🐾🎄

Listen to the story here

Life in Spencerville, I have to say, is no small potatoes—not even Pooched ones. With my first official “holiday” approaching, I found myself sauntering, as I am frequently inclined to do, toward my quaint cottage on the outskirts of this curious town, skeptically eyeing the festive adornments that draped every conceivable surface.

Now, I’ve always held that holidays are best spent in the company of friends, a good neck scratch, and perhaps a delectable banquet devoid of the abominable stick that is celery. But as the days grew shorter and the air crisper, I realized my camaraderie cup was looking a bit more half empty than I preferred.

My siblings, Fifi and Bruno, and our array of friends had all embarked on holiday ventures of their own. I, Walter, found myself confronting a holiday alone. While solitude was no stranger, it typically came alongside a serene nap rather than a seasonal shindig.

That’s when things took an unexpected paw turn. A knock at my cottage door set my ears a-perking and my tail a-twitching.

“Coming!” I barked, my thoughts a mix between intrigue and mild annoyance for the interruption of my quiet musing. The door creaked open to reveal—a cat. Yes, a cat. And not just any cat. This one wore a scarf. A purple scarf, draped with an elegance I’d seen only in the windows of The Tail Wagger’s Tailor.

“Um, hello?” I sniffed inquisitively, fully prepared to be regaled with tales of yarn balls and unattainable lasers.

“Good evening, I hope I’m not intruding,” the scarf-wearing feline meowed. She extended a dainty paw, “I’m Cordelia, from The Doggie Daycare and Spa for Paws, we’re organizing a festive feast at Black Bulldog Bay, and I am in charge of delivering invitations to certain… esteemed guests.”

Her rehearsed elocution would have fit seamlessly in the high-societal murmurings of East Pug Palace. I was perplexed. A cat, inviting a dog to a holiday feast? A beast, I thought, of her culinary audacity.

“Esteemed, you say? Well, Cordelia, you’ve piqued my intrigue. I accept,” I stated with an air of nobility I hoped Max would be proud of. Celestial happenstance seemed to favor me in that instance of loneliness—as the faint scent of grilled chicken wafted from the depths of her satchel.

Our holiday feast at Black Bulldog Bay turned out to be nothing short of a canine cornucopia. K9 Kebabs outdid themselves, and not a stalk of celery dared mar the splendor. Between jests and jubilations, I found myself enveloped by an array of animals, I’d scarcely ever spoken to. But here we were, mingling as if old pals. There I was, sharing a laugh with Cordelia.

A serendipitous reunion with friends, who, despite their own adventures, could never truly forget our bonded pack. Even Luna had shrunk herself enough to join in the festivities—pawsibly due to some invention by the same brilliant minds behind Space for Paws’ mind-bending squeaky toys.

As the evening’s chortles morphed into yawns, and the Bone Appetit’s gourmet dishes were reduced to well-licked plates, my heart swelled. I had found my holiday spirit—or rather, it had found me. It found me with a purple-scarfed cat at my door, in the unlikely friendships kindled in a cozy bay gathering, and in the realization that Spencerville was a place of infinite tales—one for every wagging tail.

And as I laid my head down that night, squeezing my squeaky rubber hamburger close, a clear truth emerged, decked out brighter than any holiday light: ‘Tis not the feast nor the play, but the love shared here and all twenty-five days, that makes Spencerville a town of delight—every single, doggone night.

The End.