Hey there hooman,

Just a quick paw to let you know, I’ve had the most wagtastic day being Santa Paws around Pawsburgh! Delivered treats, shared laughs, and spread some tail-waggin’ holiday cheer. Can’t wait to dish over a stew and tell you all the paw-some tales. Looks like the spirit of Christmas has a new furry face!

Arf-arfully yours,
Arlo 🐾🎅

Listen to the story here

Well, butter my biscuit and call it Christmas ’cause let me tell ya, folks, that’s exactly what it felt like when I woke that fateful morning. Arlo’s the name and spreading cheer – especially of the Christmas variety – is my newly-discovered game.

It started off like any other day in Pawsburgh. The town was a-buzz, or rather a-bark, with excitement. The holiday spirit was more infectious than a case of the zoomies at the dog park. I rolled out of bed, my luscious St. Bernard mane fluffing out in a cloud around me, perfectly disheveled. “Looking good, Arlo,” I self-affirmed, giving my reflection a wink before lumbering downstairs.

Martha was already deep in the biz of baking, her laughter mixing with the scent of fresh bread like they were born to be together. One sniff of those caramelized onions, and I was as drooly as a pup at Pavlov’s dinner bell.

Today was no ordinary prance through Pawsburgh, no sir. Today, I was to be… Santa Paws. My belly did the twist and tango of nervous excitement, but I resolved to embrace the role with the same gusto I embraced a Martha-special stew.

With a wag of my tail sturdy enough to knock over a less robust knick-knack, I strutted in the direction of The Groom Room for a holiday spruce-up. The eskie behind the counter gave me a look that was one part awe, two parts get-the-vacuum. “Here for the Santa Paws makeover?”

“You know it,” I replied with all the confidence I could muster. Sparkled like fresh snowfall, I made my exit, now sporting a furry red hat that sat askew over my charming eye droop.

First stop: Whippet Wraps. I nosed through the doors, armed with sacks bulging with treats and toys. The tiny terriers that ran the joint yipped their yuletide greetings. I handed out goodies, my “ho-ho-hos” heartier than Martha’s rye loaves, and didn’t even flinch when the Whippet twins tried to bogart my beloved football.

As the day rolled on, I visited every shop, every restaurant, and every nook and cranny of Pawsburgh. My Santa sack grew lighter, but my heart swelled bigger than my paws in winter. Duke tried to swipe a beef-flavored candy cane from Pet Partners Pet Supplies – that rascal – but he met the soft wall of my nose nudge. Season of giving, right?

Dusk settled like a cozy blanket over Setter Shore, painting everything that delicious gold that gets my tongue lolling out in contentment. It was my favorite time, the golden hour, and I sat, watching my fellow dogs frolic, Rosie beside me radiating grace like she owned the place. I even caught a glimmering reflection off the ocean – was it the holiday spirit itself? Well no, it was just the side mirror of a passing Beetle, but let’s keep the metaphor, eh?

We swapped stories as dogs do, with barks, yips, and whole-body tail wags. Tales of the day’s shenanigans, of my grand Santa Paws adventure – they’d be recounted at Pooch’s Pizzeria over slices larger than our heads later.

As the stars popped out like sprinkles on Martha’s famous ginger barks, I knew this much was true: Santa Paws wasn’t just a fancy title or a red hat gig – it was about bringing smiles wider than the Doberman Dunes and joy thicker than the most savory stew.

And with that heart-stirring notion, I trotted home, my Santa Paws’ duty fulfilled. Martha would be waiting with a steaming bowl and open arms. As for the lemons? Let’s just say they made a fine makeshift tree ornament. Let the festivities begin!

The End.

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