Hey hooman! In case you missed it, your nonchalant bulldog, Rose, turned Christmas Shepherd last night and herded lost sheep instead of counting them in my dreams. Who knew a snort could be so persuasive? Seems my barkday wish for adventure came early. 🐾🐶 – Bulldog Boss Rose

Listen to the story here

Ah, the peculiar magic of Yuletide. It’s not just the humans who revel in the festive tapestry of Christmas; here in Pawsburgh, the jingle of collars and the rustle of tinsel are as much a part of our world as the steadfast mailman is to our daily diversions. It’s a tale, one could argue, woven from the most curious of threads but let me not get ahead of myself – woof, there I go again, a bulldog ahead of her tales.

So, ‘twas the Eve when all through our quaint canine town, Pyrenean Peaks dusted with a fine, forgiving snow, just perfect for the nonchalant trot I’m known for. The stout, muscular example of bulldog-ness that is me, Rose, found herself somewhat unconventionally taking a lead in a midnight caper that, frankly, wasn’t in my calendar.

A gaggle of lost sheep – and no, this isn’t a metaphor, literal fluffy, bleating sheep – had found themselves in Pearl Papillon Promenade. This could only be the work of the Christmas Shepherd, that German Shepherd from lore who guides the lost on snowy nights, a sentiment in mascot form. I, for one, have never understood the fuss about sheep when there are rubber chickens to be seized.

But here they were, their baas an odd symphony against the backdrop of the quiet, snow-dappled homes of my human caretakers. So much for the “silent night” everyone’s always raving about.

Tucker, the spirited terrier, would’ve chased them ’till next Tuesday, but he’s all talk can’t resist his own reflection. Whiskers could’ve philosophized their return to the shepherd’s fold, but he couldn’t be bothered, not with the comfort of his warm windowsill.

Thus, it fell to me, Rose, the illustrious, but generally nonchalant bulldog, trending more towards naps than heroic escapades, to embody the virtues of guidance and kindness in true Christmas Shepherd fashion. I suppose every dog has her day, or in this case, night.

I approached the flock with that mirthful kind of indifference which so colors my persona. My snorts seemed to calm the woolly wanderers – or maybe confuse them – as they huddled closer to me, taking in the aromatic blend of limited editions from The Woofy Bakery wafting through the air.

I led, no, I ambled with them, through Mastiff Meadows, where the tall grasses were now frosted sculptures, towards Barking Brunch. There, nestled between the warmth of freshly baked bread (artisanal, of course; this is Pawsburgh), I found him – the Christmas Shepherd himself.

His coat was alight with mythical shimmer, and his eyes were pools of the wisdom one naturally attributes to shepherds and librarians.

“You’re late,” I snorted at him, my own brand of charm not missing the underbite of wit.

A nod, a gentle doggy grin, and he corralled his charges with a grace I reserve strictly for sunny afternoons on the living room carpet. Humans would be waking soon, and the spell of kindly canine mystique had to be maintained.

Homeward bound, I passed Canine Couture Clothing, eyeing the absurd doggy sweaters – a bulldog’s got to have dignity. I snuffled with laughter because, really, dignified in a sweater?

As I slipped back to my sun patch, now moon-kissed, the Christmas Shepherd tale would be one for my humans, a fanciful dream their yawns would doubt on the morrow.

But in the heart of every dog in Pawsburgh, amidst the dreams of bacon treaties and rubber chickens crying battle, lies the true spirit of Christmas – and a bulldog named Rose who, for one night, herded sheep instead of snores.

The End.