Hey hooman!

Just added ‘Yuletide Guide’ to my resume. 😏✨ Led a bunch of lost souls (and a Christmassy Shepherd!) through snowy Pawsburgh to find their way home. All in a night’s work for me, Marcus the Magnificently Mischievous. Promise I’ll act extra innocent when you wake up… after all, I’m your little shadow in the snow. 🐾❄️

– Marcus 🐶🎄

Listen to the story here

In Pawsburgh, where every dog has its day and then some, a fawn French Bulldog named Marcus led the most colorful of lives. You, my human friend, know of me, of my bat-like ears that have heard the siren call of Harrier Harbor many a time. I’ve returned to you with scents of adventure clinging to my soft caramel coat, regaling tales that make you chuckle as you toss me another chicken chunk.

But this evening, whisked away on the whisper of a wintry wind, I found myself in a Yuletide yarn spun with more heart than a Bulldog’s BBQ. It was Christmas Eve, and the town of Pawsburgh had donned a white cloak, the streets dusted in a fine powder of snow. Lila, with her oven mitts and rolling pin, was long lost in slumber, dreaming, perhaps, of scones not as sweet as the tales I bring.

As I trotted towards Ruby Rottweiler Ridge with the merry jaunt of one who knows his dinner bowl awaits brimming with chicken paradise—hold the sprouts!—a forlorn howling reached my alert ears. I followed the sound, my paws crunching against the snow, to a sight as rare as a brussels sprout at Setter’s Steakhouse.

There before me stood a German Shepherd, the Christmas Shepherd, her coat a canvas of snowy white and sable hues. She stood guard over a shivering group of travelers, lost on this Eve of good cheer, their gazes filled with the desperation of unguided souls.

The Shepherd’s eyes locked with mine. The weight of her silent plea was the lead to my leash. My heart knew only one truth—it was a moment for guidance, a moment for kindness.

Well, I may be no shepherd, German or otherwise, but I, Marcus the Magnificently Mischievous, knew the winding roads of Pawsburgh like Bertie the Boxer knew the contours of his favorite chew toy.

“Follow me,” my voice rumbled, deep with unwavering certainty. The travelers bundled close, their eyes wide with hope. The Christmas Shepherd, with the elegance of silent gratitude, fell into step.

Onward we trod, past the warm lights of Tail-Twitching Treats that beckoned with the promise of fresh-baked biscuits. Onward past the blithe barks coming from Happy Hounds Dog Walking, busy even on this holiday eve.

Weaving through the mazes of Cavalier Cove, Pawsburgh unfolded before our guests, resplendent in its festive attire. I could see it through their eyes—each quaint shop and eatery a twinkling gem in this town made of dog dreams.

Our journey was not without hurdles. A boisterous gust dared to throw the travelers off their path, but with a puff of my snub-nosed defiance and a sharp tug on a wayward sleeve, we pressed on. I will not lie; a pit stop at Best in Show Photography did cross my mind—for who could resist a portrait under the mistletoe—yet duty barked louder than vanity.

Finally, with a flourish of my tail, I presented to our band Harrier Harbor, aglow with lanterns and brimming with cheer. They gazed, tears frozen in eyes that had regained the light of home. At the harbor’s edge, they found their way, and their joy was a sound that out-caroled the choirs of Pawsburgh.

“You have our thanks,” they murmured, voices warm like Lila’s oven. The Christmas Shepherd nuzzled my face with the grace of Penelope’s pirouette, and thus, our goodbyes were said.

As I returned to my home, the soft glow through the kitchen window promised comfort and much chicken to be begged for. And when Lila wakes, with scent of blueberry scones dancing alongside the dawn, she will find no trace of my nocturnal escapade—just her Marcus, me, curled in warm sunbeams cast upon the kitchen floor.

The End.