Hey Mum,

Just saved Christmas in Pawsburgh by reigniting an elf’s festive spirit with laughs, memories, and some Santa Paws snaps. Twinkles is sparkling again! I’ve truly become a Santa’s little helper with a Bulldog’s determination. Love you lots and wagging my way back home now.

Cheers,
Pumpkin 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

Oh, there I was, Dolly Bulldog, a fine British dame of a canine, if I may say so, taking my nightly jaunt from my human’s abode to the magical borough of Pawsburgh. As my paws padded softly along the cobblestones of Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, I marveled at the incandescent sparkle of the stars above, thinking how they paled in comparison to the shimmering lights of Pawsburgh during Christmas time.

It is a town, you see, where the only currency is the tail-wags and heartwarming friendships. I passed the Golden Grub, gazing longingly at the Hamburgers of the Day, before reminding myself of the task at paw. My dear elf friend, Twinkles McJingles, had found himself in a fix of the frostiest kind – he’d lost the spirit of Christmas. And so, under the cover of night, cloaked by a sprinkling of snowflakes, I set out to be his North Pole—his beacon to the joy he’d misplaced.

Twinkles was of the sort who used to light up an entire factory floor with his laugh, a heartwarming chortle that rivaled Santa’s own. But I sensed, with my keen Bulldog instincts, that Light had dimmed in his eyes. Each step toward the great city with him was one of trepidation; his usual spark lost amidst the cacophony of carols and commerce.

However, deep in my fur-covered chest beat a heart that wouldn’t stand for such sadness. Clutching Rishi the fishy in my jowls, that scrappy little toy being my reminder of home and hearth, I hatched a plan.

“You know what, Twinkles?” I said, in the jolly banter of our discourse, “In Pawsburgh, we have this saying: every closed kennel door opens a path to the park.”

He chuckled, an echo of his former merriness. “And what might that mean, Dolly?”

I led him across Briard Bridge, its wooden planks whispering tales beneath our feet, watching as his gaze took in the nostalgic charm of the surrounding. “It means that when things look grim, there’s always an alleyway we’ve not sniffed out yet,” I explained with a nudge.

We arrived at The Pampered Pooch Salon, where the whiff of pine teased our noses above the usual scents of shampoos and serums. Buster Shepherd, a friend and the proprietor of the salon, had set up a photobooth with Best in Show Photography – ‘Santa Paws Snaps’, the sign read. With a twinkle nearly matching that of Twinkles’, he invited us in.

Before the elf could protest, I had us donning the jolliest of Santa hats, with me striking a pose so dignified you’d think I was born in that red cap. The flash of the camera captured our whimsy, freezing the moment like ice on a pond. Lo and behold, Twinkles started… well, twinkling. Laughter spouted from his lips like it did from the fountains in Husky’s Hotcakes, honest and unbridled.

From the laughter came stories, and with the stories came memories—of family, festivity, and the magic that wraps around the soul like a warm Yuletide blanket. I saw the light in Twinkles’ eyes reignite, there and then, in that little quiet corner of Pawsburgh.

We ventured onwards to the human’s city with renewed vigor, the pulse of Christmas resounding in our steps. We mingled with the elves, hugs exchanged, joyous laughter filling the air.

I, Dolly Bulldog, had completed my silent vow. Not a mere portrait of poise, I was the essence of determination—for my friend’s spirit and for the purest of Christmases. And as the city embraced us in its festive clasp, I knew that this tale was another brushstroke on the canvas of Pawsburgh, another star in its twinkling Christmas sky.

The End.