Hey there Ma,

Just a quick tail-wag of an update – I’ve been livin’ it up in Pawsburgh! Found the squeakiest toy, played snow tag with pups, indulged in festive feasts, and howled carols louder than the Big Dog’s bark. It’s been a Christmas paw-ty of epic proportions! Hugs to you and the cat.

Licks and wags,
Gotti 🐾🎄

Listen to the story here

As told by Gotti himself:

Now, I’d wager you’ve heard some tales of yore ’bout dogs with grand adventures and lives full of more ups and downs than the hills back on Vizsla Valley. But let me bark to you a Christmas story you won’t be forgettin’ anytime soon—mine own!

You see, in Pawsburgh, Christmas time has a magic that exceeds the ordinary, something worthy of a dog’s wildest dreams. That December, the snow had blanketed our magical town like the fluff on a young pup’s ear, and each morn brought with it wonders aplenty.

On the first day of Christmas, I sauntered down to The Doggy Depot, my coat catching them snowflakes as though they be pieces of the sky fallin’ just for me. As if by destiny, there in them shelves stacked higher than a hound’s hopes, was a new toy—a stuffed squirrel with a hint of squeak. “This,” I declared, “shall be mine!” And snatch I did with glee untold.

On the second day, myself, I ambled down Sapphire Schnauzer Street, my thoughts racing faster than greyhounds on a chase. Lo and behold, two pups, not more than knee-high to a grasshopper, tumbling bowlegged in the snow. They came at me with the mighty courage only the innocent have, inviting me to a jolly game of snow tag. And play we did, until each of us was a roly-poly snowdog.

Come the third, I visited Retriever’s Restaurant. Dashes of savory scents weaved through the air like the tailor’s finest threads. Given my notoriety for never letting a good dish go unadmired, a bowl of turkey with all the trimmin’s found its way into my possession. You’d swear I had never seen food before with the speed it vanished!

The days marched on like ants toward a picnic, each delivering a parcel of joy. The fourth, a race down Blue Basenji Bay with the wind barking in our ears. The fifth brought a concert from the quarry where canines famed for their howls sang melodies no human ear’s been graced to hear.

On the sixth, I gifted myself a fine stroll past Collie’s Cuisine, catchin’ a whiff of apple pies cooling on the windowsill. My admiration must’ve been apparent, for I was bestowed with a slice thicker’n a dictionary, and let me bark, it was finer than silk.

By the seventh day, that age-old energy ran through me, proud and fierce as the river runs to the sea, and I led a pack o’ youngins on the Great Pawsburgh Treasure Hunt, endin’ with the discovery of an “X” that marked the spot of the best stick one could fetch.

Now the eighth and ninth and tenth, I confess, are marred in such a flurry of comradeship and togetherness, it’s hard to separate them days. There were gifts exchanged at The Howling Husky Hardware Store, tales woven at Happy Hounds Dog Walking and secrets murmured ‘neath the Wise Old Willow near Wagging Whisk.

The eleventh day arrived swift as a thought, and I found myself hosting a feast with scraps ya’d think fit for royalty. All my friends came flockin’, their tails tellin’ their happiness better’n any words could.

Finally, the twelfth day dawned, and Pawsburgh’s heart swelled with such a spirit, you’d think it couldn’t contain no more. As friends, old and new, gathered ’round the Great Christmas Bone, we howled a carol that rose above rooftops into the crisp night, a promise of merry tomorrows.

Now, I could regale you with more ’bout those magical days, but I reckon the best stories be those lived, not just told. Pawsburgh may be a fantastical place, but remember this—magic, my friend, be where you find it, and I found mine in the joy and warmth of them Twelve Dogs of Christmas.

The End.

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