Hey there,

Just your local tail-wagger, Bishop, reporting in! 🐾 Managed to break the ice with ol’ Rumbone up on Kelpie Keys. Turned the town’s Grinch into a caroling pup with tricks, tales, and secret chicken bites. Pawsburg’s Christmas spirit is stronger than ever – even got a carol out of Rumbone. Who knew?! 🎄❄️ #PawsburghMiracle

Wags and woofs,
Bish 🎩

Listen to the story here

Well now, let me spin ya a yarn ’bout a Christmas I reckon folks in Pawsburg still talk about over their kibble and scraps. Bishop’s the name, adventurin’ is my game, and one particular wind-whippled eve led me to a tale that’d warm the whiskers off any chilly-hearted hound.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and nary a creature had a care in Pawsburgh, leastways not those who knew their way ’round the joyous jamboree that seized the town each year. All the dogs, with their tails waggin’ ferocious as a summer thunderstorm, decked the streets from Akita Alley to Sapphire Schnauzer with lights that’d make stars envious.

Yet, there’s always one, ain’t there? One scrooge, one stick-in-the-mud, one – ahem – Grinch, if y’all will. Old Rumbone, a canine so cantankerous that even his growl seemed to scowl, holed up tight in his lair atop Kelpie Keys, watchin’ with disdain, ears flat as week-old flapjacks.

I took it upon myself, considerin’ my spirited nature an’ all, to spirit away some cheer to ol’ Rumbone’s threshold. Why, the very whimsy of it filled my paws with prankish urges! So, under the pale lantern of a waning moon, I trod the snow-clad pathway to Rumbone’s retreat with nuthin’ but my blue rubber ball for company.

“Be you friend or foe?” Rumbone rumbled low as I approached, his shadow spillin’ out like ink from a toppled jar. My ears, those outlandish beacons, perked up in the chill.

“Neither, good sir,” says I with a twirl. “I’m just a humble emissary of merriment!”

Now, folks, don’t you go thinkin’ it was easy. Rumbone was as close-fisted with joy as he was with bones. Yet, with every toss an’ zigzag of my trusty ball, a sliver of a smile did I spy creep onto his glowerin’ visage.

We rambled through yarns of Yuletides past, and I learnt that his heart hadn’t been drenched in the oil of joy since he was knee-high to a snowman’s pup. He told of a Christmas where no waggin’ tail awaited him, no warm lick on a frost-bit snout; just a lonely den and echoes of festivities afar.

Listen, it’s in such moments your paws gotta make the step that counts. Mine found the path to Rumbone’s side, and well, I couldn’t resist imparting the secret of Mrs. Harper’s chicken bites. His eyes, too, lit up with the glint of shared mischief.

We dined that eve on unmentionables from Mutt Munchies and swapped heartier tales of Paw Pad Thai noodles escapades, light as a butterfly’s breath on a jasmine breeze. By the jinglin’ bells, I was stuffed fuller than a stocking!

In the whirligig of time, Rumbone found his bark a-tangled with laughter, shared among friends, both new and old. And his chilly heart, like the river’s ice come springtime, gave way to the thawin’ promise of companionship.

As dawn painted the heavens with strokes both tender and fiery, we returned down from Kelpie Keys, Rumbone a-waggin’ with a gait spry as a colt in a meadow’s embrace.

Now, the mailman – my comic adversary – he eyed us curiously as we parted ways, but I offered him naught but a knowing wink. For in Pawsburg, magic runs deeper’n the love dogs hold for their humans, and I’d wager my last chicken scrap that Rumbone’s story – our Christmas caper – would be what dreamers speak on when starlight winks through frosty panes.

As I flopped in my cozy bed, nestled ‘gainst a day’s adventure done right, I could swear I heard Rumbone’s voice liftin’ up in a carol, minglin’ with the light-hearted woofs of Pawsburgh’s dawn. Ain’t nothin’ quite like Christmas to teach an old dog the trick of joy anew.

The End.

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