Hey Dad,

Holiday recap from your four-legged misfit: ventured into Pawsburgh, shunned the Barking BBQ in favor of some spaniel intrigue, teamed up with the enchanting Marlene to unravel a husky howl mystery. Discovered the cheer isn’t in the feast, but in the paws we meet along the way. Loneliness is out, friendship’s in. Missing your two-legged company though.

Tail wags and slobbery kisses,
Trixie

Listen to the story here

I never understood why humans got all flustered about the holidays; Dad would hang twinkling lights and mumble about untangling knots—a tradition, he claimed. Yet, as every dog in Pawsburgh will tell you, there’s magic in those frosty, silent nights that elevates a simple tail wag. I’m Trixie, by the way—an Old English Bulldog with a soft spot for car rides and a preoccupation with savory morsels.

I remember one holiday in particular, when Dad, my steadfast guardian, had to leave our cozy shack for some human obligation. In the empty echo of his departure, I found myself ushered by solitude straight into Pawsburgh, my secret refuge.

Briard Bridge loomed ahead of me, a stoic passage aglow with lanterns, welcoming canine vagabonds to festivities. With furled brow and a gait that implied a indifference to cold (admittedly, I shivered), I troted on. My ears greeted the distant hum of camaraderie before my paws did.

Garnet Greyhound Grove was abuzz. String lights shimmered in the branches, a celestial map drawn by the paws of mischievous pups above. At the heart of the grove stood a spectacle I could never have dreamt up, even with my imagination—after all, a bulldog’s mind is practical, with whimsy on a leash.

It was the feast of Barking BBQ, with a whiff that could lure a king from his castle. Sally and Bodhi, my fellow Jack Russell conspirators, darted through the grove, weaving tales with their yaps and yips.

“Trixe ol’ pal! You gotta try the Paw-lickin’ Pancakes!” Bodhi bellowed, but his eyes danced with that familiar glint of adventure-seeker mischief. Sally nodded feverishly beside him, a syrupy mustache her badge of indulgence.

I barely suppressed a chuckle—my chuckle, of course, being more of a snort mixed with a growl—remembering our code of bravado. I grunted in agreement and veered away from the stands filled with tasty temptations. Panache, after all, wasn’t rendered by a full belly, but by the stories you could bark about later.

That’s when I spotted her—Marlene, a malamute with eyes like the North Star, and fur that looked softer than a thousand puffed cushions. She stood near Spaniel Springs, an aloof beauty sipping tepid water from a bowl.

“Does the water meet your standards?” I wheezed, exuding that air of I-don’t-care, that Vonnegutesque indifference.

She glanced at me, a smirk tugging at the corner of her snout. “Barely,” she quipped, “And you, Trixie, fancy a dip?”

“Hah! You’ll sooner see a cat recite the ‘Barklet’s Soliloquy,'” I replied with the confidence of a thespian, though reminded of my disdain for anything damp.

But in a twist of the tail, as the crisp evening danced with the fragrance of pine and smoked meats, adventure came calling. A howl—a summon from the Howling Husky Hardware Store—rang through the grove. Something was amiss, and beneath the façade of a merrymaking holiday, a call for paws was made.

Marlene’s inquisitive eyes met mine, and I knew it was time to shed the lone wolf act. A pact was forged under the diamond-studded sky, an unexpected fellowship birthed by festive fervor and a bulldog’s sense of righteousness.

We took off, leaving a trail of melted footsteps. Our mission became the heart of my holiday tale, an account infused with laughter, bravery, and the essence of what it meant to be a dog—fleeting moments of unspoken bonds that went beyond species and ancestry, against the backdrop of Pawsburgh’s own holiday wonders.

And I, Trixie, with Marlene at my side, I found that loneliness was but a shadow; friendship, my newfound delight.

The End.