Hey Mom,

Just had to share – I, Georgia, aka your furry philanthropist, have successfully warmed up what used to be mom’s Scrooge-like heart! Through doggy wiles and Yuletide magic, I turned our money-minded Christmas into a tail-wagging festival of friendship and love. Oh, and get this – we’re now sharing pizzas with Pawsburgh pals! Call it a Christmas miracle or call it canine charm, but home’s never felt so cozy. Hugs, belly rubs, and happy holidays!

Love, Georgia 🐾🎄✨

Listen to the story here

In the quiet sighs of Pawsburgh, where the moon cast silvery pools on the cobblestone streets and the wind whispered through the weeping willows of Opal Pomeranian Park, I left my human snuggled up in her dreams. I sneaked out to steal some night air; she wouldn’t miss me, just yet.

Now, you should know, I’m Georgia, a red brindle bulldog with spots as unique as snowflakes. It might sound odd, but my human, much like the chap Ebenezer from that old tale, wasn’t always the cozy haven she is now. This Yuletide changed us both, much to my delighted surprise.

It wasn’t long ago that my mom’s heart was… let’s say ‘misplaced.’ Money was her fetching stick; she wouldn’t share it, though. Not a smidge. I’m no fool – I love a good chicken feast, but I could tell even then that the real meat wasn’t in her wallet.

One brisk evening as we trotted past Diamond Doberman Dunes, a lost hound shivering in the shadows of pearl-like dunes caught our eyes. My leash grew taut as I nudged my mom toward the poor creature. But she hurried past with nary a glance, her mind fixed on gold and not golden retriever hearts.

“Back home, Georgia. It’s late,” my mom insisted, her words frostier than the chill in the air.

As we returned home through Pawsburgh, past The Howling Husky Hardware Store and The Barking Boutique, rumors were barking around. Appears my mom’s frostiness was just as famed among my four-legged friends.

Pawsburgh, you see, has more warmth in its little dewclaw than my mom had in her whole portfolio. Here, we shared, we cared, and we played. It was our Christmas every day, save for mom, who seemed to have forgotten how to wag her tail.

But fortunes have flavors more varied than Hound’s Hotdogs. When Christmas rolled in, Mom fell ill, sicker than a dog, you could say. It left her colder than a penguin’s handshake and, for the first time, truly alone.

I wasn’t about to have that. One waggy tail at a time, I gathered our Pawsburgh gang. Oscar, my brindle buddy, and the gang showed up at our door, each bearing a gift – bones, balls, love, and licks.

“What’s all this, Georgia?” Mom asked, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“It’s Christmas, isn’t it?” I seem to bark, though it’s all licks and wags to human ears.

She peered through the window at the reunion of tails. Harrier Harbor glowed with festive lights as if the stars decided to dip their toes in earthly waters.

That night, a change kindled in Mom’s spirit. She realized that her wealth wasn’t in stocks or bonds, but in every soul that wagged a tail at her. Before we knew it, we were sharing dinners at Pawprint Pizzeria with strangers turned friends.

These days, at each warm cuddle and each spirited tug-of-war, I witness the rebirth of my mom’s Christmas spirit, and with it, the joy she’d almost buried under her mountains of coins.

Oscar nudges me toward the beach now, thinking my story’s too sentimental for his taste. But he doesn’t understand; sometimes a dog’s got to share a tale that warms the heart and tickles the whiskers.

And tonight, back at home, as my mom mumbles a sleepy “I love you” to me, her furry little miser turned into man’s and dog’s best friend, I can’t help but think that this might be, just maybe, the best Christmas in Pawsburgh yet.

The End.