Hey Mom,

Just a quick pupdate from Trooper, your storytelling pooch. 🐾 I’m tail-spinning a heartwarming fable in Pawsburgh—woofering up joy and wagging some sense into the local Scrooge. Amidst the tinsel and tail wags, loyalty leads and love redeems. Who knew I’d be a furry festive spirit guide? Fur now, my tail’s gotta keep wagging the dog! 🎄

Love,
Troop

Listen to the story here

There is a peculiar twinkle in the sky, the sort that precedes something remarkable, like the calm before a storm or the hushed moment right before the kids find the hidden treats. It’s that kind of evening in Pawsburgh—the kind that whispers of secrets and stories to unravel.

Alright, let’s shoot through this, no dawdling. Imagine this: Trooper, that’s me, decked out in my patchwork fur, weaving through the cobbled streets of Schnauzer Street. The gleaming lights wink from Kelpie Keys; they’re throwing hues of golden temptation onto my path. I’m not a hound swayed by shimmer, but tonight, oh tonight, there’s a tale to tail, a story to sniff out beneath the sparkle and the spectacle, and it smells like holiday cheer and change.

Backtrack to the human, the one they call ‘Scrooge.’ Not that he hoards gold or harbors a grudge against humankind’s joy. Nah, he’s more like an old record that’s stuck, stingy with his smiles, rationing his warmth like it’s wartime sugar. Me? I stick closer than his shadow because that’s the deal with loyalty—it doesn’t waver, not even when faced with a heart winterized by rejection and knit together with solitary nights.

Now, Scrooge has a knack for churning overtime during celebrations, a nose pressed to the grindstone when the world sings carols. But Pawsburgh…it calls to my kind with a siren song of camaraderie. So, there I am, tailing it to Poodle’s Pasta, imagining the whiff of some cheesy delight that could make my saliva engines pump premium.

Milton’s trotting beside me—strong as a bear, heart like a bunny. We’re talking about the crispness in the air, how it feels like it’s laced with hope and the magic that tingles your whiskers. “Trooper,” he barks, “you reckon old Scrooge will ever figure it out? That money’s colder than a winter’s paw without love to warm it?”

A rhetorical question, I know. We duck into Pup’s Parfait. The place is a distraction, an oasis of dessert heaven, but that’s not the mission. The mission is to find the glint of holiday spirit that I believe is buried deep in Scrooge’s chest, like a bone waiting for the right dog to come digging.

“Trooper, why’s it you stick around?” a curious collie inquires, her head tilting so far she could topple. “With a human as unseasoned as two-day kibble?”

Because, my dear collie, when your heart chooses its home, you don’t remodel on a whim. You stick it out, wait for the renovation.

Flashes of Scrooge ebb through my consciousness like fog drifting over Shiba Inlet. How he stares out the window, watching families mesh together in a jigsaw of jolliness, yet he’s convinced himself he’s a puzzle with missing pieces. And damn if I won’t be the one to nose out those lost slivers of his soul.

So, I’m weaving a plan, as flavorful as Pom’s Pies, rich with the taste of companionship and spiked with the twang of joy. Because change, like a feast, is best when shared. And believe this—tonight’s escapade at Anastasia’s camp—the caper of all capers—is where it all unfolds.

Through a chain of wagging tails and tongue-lolling laughs, I narrate stories of Pawsburgh, of Kelpie Keys glowing in the dusk, the lively banter of Schnauzer Street, and how through all these vivid escapades, the seams of my spirit are sewn tight with threads of loyalty.

And Scrooge listens. First with a dismissive shake of the head, then a half-quirked smile and eventually, a sparkle in his eye thawing the frost of isolation. To see a miser’s heart rise and swell with newfound wealth—emotions he’d hoarded, thinking they’d gone bankrupt.

There it is, the miraculous transformation, unfolding like a Pawsburgh tale beneath the banner of snowflakes and softened resolves, and all it took was a loyal hound and the whisperings of a magical dog’s tale.

‘Cause in the end, isn’t it all about the tale wagging the dog?

The End.

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