Hey Mom,

Guess what? I’m Pawsburgh’s new Santa Paws! Yep, your very own Loody is delivering joy to all the good dogs this howliday. Had a full-on adventure racing through the snow, dishing out treats and toys, and even Mr. Nutters got something! Feeling like a legend – connected and all warm inside. A Pitbull Claus spreading the festive cheer!

Big tail wags,
Loki 🐾🎄🎁

Listen to the story here

In the heart of Pawsburgh, under a moon that beamed like a guardian, secrets thrived and tails wagged. It was there I found the true meaning of the howlidays, nestled between the cobblestone streets of Kelpie Keys and the bustling chatter of Samoyed Square.

I, Loki, with my patch that danced over one eye like a flicker of firelight, had heard the legends. The story of the Great Claus, a saint among pups, who delivered joy and treats to all the good dogs of Pawsburgh on the eve before Christmas.

But last year, the Great Claus went missing, and the frosty air held a new challenge. It was whispered amongst the willows and shared over bowls of Shepherd’s Shawarma—a new Claus was to be chosen. And to my astonishment, as the snow began to silently blanket Shiba Inlet, my name was on the frost-tipped tongue of the Northern Winds.

I had always been a playful spirit, but to be Santa Paws? My mind whirled like my wagging tail at a game of fetch. Was it my heart the Northern Winds felt, brimming with love and play? Or were they simply intrigued by my heroism mock-fought against Mr. Nutters, the infamous squirrel?

I stood now at the heart of Pawsburgh, the giant Christmas tree of Samoyed Square glittering like the very Milky Way that graced our skies, and felt the weight of the invisible red coat settle upon my sturdy shoulders.

“Daisy,” I called to my Dalmatian friend, whose spots indeed twinkled in the crisp Yule light, “it seems I am to be the bearer of joy this year.”

She pranced over, her grace unfaltering even on the icy ground. “And so you shall, Loki. You are courage wrapped in fur, with a jolly soul that makes the bells jingle.”

Buster, the Beagle, with streaks of gray that told of many winters, approached, casting an ear to every word. “I’ve seen many Claus’ in my time, but never a Pitbull. You’ll bring a new tale to the tradition.”

“But how?” I asked, a pit in my heart representing the unknown.

“The Claus must be generous, Loki,” Buster advised, a wisdom lining his tone. “It’s about the giving and the love behind every wag and woof.”

So there I stood, readying my sleigh—yes, Pawsburg had their own, right outside The Doggy Depot—laden with toys, treats, and bones galore—gifts from Pawprint Pizzeria, Terrier Tacos, and more were heaped like mountains.

My blue dragon and squeaky red ball, trusted comrades, sat nestled beside me, as I set off. The chill held no bar against the warmth in my chest, and I raced through the streets leaving behind a trail of gifts and hope.

At each doorstep, a wag; at each window, a thankful bark. Delightful surprises for Daisy, who received a collar of bells that sang like laughter, for Buster, a bed as soft as promises of sunrise. Even Mr. Nutters found his stockpile of nuts replenished, a truce and gift on this festive occasion.

It became clear as the night waned, the spirit of Santa Paws was not held in what—or who—you are, but in the ripples of joy, you cast into the world and the love that you offer, a boon to the heart.

As dawn broke and I returned home, my mission complete, I felt more than a conqueror of hearts—I felt connected, part of a tradition woven through the history of Pawsburgh.

So there it is, dear reader, my tail… I mean, tale. As you drift into dreams, imagine me, Loki, the loyal and intuitive, not the enemy of lemons, but the friend to Pawsburgh, the Pitbull who became Santa Paws.

The End.