Hey Dad,

Just wanted to let you know that your boy Percy became the unexpected hero of Spencerville this Christmas Eve. Guided some lost travelers to safety amidst the snow, earning myself a new title as the town’s Christmas Shepherd. Remember how you’d say we’re here to light the way for others? Guess I took that to heart.

Sweet dreams and belly rubs,
Percy 🐾

Listen to the story here

I reckon it were a night not unlike those you’ve heard tell of in festive yuletide tales, the kind with powder-fresh snow an inch thick ‘pon the ground and a sky so clear the stars sparkled like shards of glass against an onyx shroud. I, Percy by name and adventurer by trade, trod a path worn in the heart of Spencerville, with witticisms as my currency and loyalty as my creed.

That Christmas Eve as the moon rose high to cast its pale glow o’er Siberian Summit and its fellow haunts, such as Bulldog Bay and ye olde Boxer Beach, I found me wandering, muscles aching for exertion and tongue wagging with excitement. The holiday spirit filled every window of Fetch-N-Bites and danced in the air with the smoky aroma from Dog-gone Good BBQ.

Now, ’twas common knowledge to any upright-walking creature that me own kind aren’t particularly known for their love for the festive salad garnishings or unmanly fears such as a cluttered city street yonder. Nor were they kinfolk to cushy-footed felines pouncing on greens like ’twas nature’s given feline fare. Nay, the earthy scent of the woods, owing to my natural lineage—an Entlebucher Mountain Dog, bred sturdy and free—called deepest to my heart.

I had me a deuced fine game of fetch earlier with a figure ‘at had thrown the stick better than any o’ the folks back at Boxer Beach; always knew how to arc it just so. But as nighttime descended, them folks made their way to the cozy confines of their wooden abodes, leaving the streets to scoundrels, storytellers, and the occasional giggle of wayward pups.

Then a ruffle in the silent night caught me by the ears—a soft jingle, a hushed murmur. Saw a sight not often seen: travelers, lost as last year’s Easter eggs, their faces near as white as the snow what blanketed the ground round ’bout. Their tinsel-clad beast of burden, a wagon of sorts, had skidded off the trail and there it sat, sunk in snow like a bone buried too deep.

“A dog bless us, everyone,” I heard whispered, the travelers eyeing me with hope sprouting in their winter-weary eyes. With nary a word, I set meself to the task: nose to the ground, tail to the wind. I led the lot of ’em o’er hill, through dale, right up to the warmth of Pupsicle Palace where candles flickered like dancing sprites in the hearth.

Now, I’ll not be one to boast unduly, but the gratitude shone in them folks’ peepers fierce as the Northern Star. And amid the back patting and kind words—and believe you me, there was no lack of either—I found meself pondering on the simple joys. ‘Twas nothing grand or marked by great fanfare, but helping those folks gave me a sense that perhaps we ain’t just awaiting reunion with our own, but are her on this earth, or Spencerville if you will, to light the way for others.

So, me story ain’t just ’bout frolics on Bulldog Bay or chewin’ deer legs by Siberian Summit; it’s also ’bout the night I, a humble pup of the mountains, became a Christmas shepherd amongst the snowflakes.

And to those who wonder what new exploits I might find in the morrow—well, that’s another tale. For tonight, beneath the mantled sky, the spirit of guiding and kindness lay tucked in the furrow of my doggy brow. A shepherd’s duty never done, so long as there’s travellers to guide and stars a-twinkle above this grand tableau we call Spencerville.

The End.