Hey Sarah,

Just nailed my debut as Sir Woofington, saving Christmas cheer like the pro I am. The audience barked with glee, the snowflakes danced in my honor, and I can’t wait to curl up and tell you every tail-wagging detail. Stock up on the peanut butter biscuits; tonight we celebrate!

Wags and woofs,
Hank 🐾

Listen to the story here

As the first snowflakes of the season began to drift down from the heavens, blanketing Pawsburgh in a powdery white, I, Hank, the American Bulldog-Lab mix, found myself amidst a flurry of festive excitement that only comes with kibble-coated dreams and Christmas whispers.

Not unlike the speckles of white upon my own chest, I admired the glimmering serenity of Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, now a vision more akin to Sugarplum Fairy’s playground than the rugged romping grounds known to my kind.

With a tail wag that could knock over Santa’s cookie platter, I bounded through the streets towards Cocker Courtyard, where the annual Christmas show was more than a casual bark in the park. Serendipitously, I had landed the role of ‘Sir Woofington,’ the brave heart that saves the holiday cheer—with a dash of clumsy grace, no less. To say the least, Sarah would’ve chuckled over my ‘art imitating life.’

The melodious chatter of pups rehearsing lines and pawing through costumes warmed my heart as I passed Happy Hounds Dog Walking, which, for the season, looked more like a slalom of excited pups than a place of business. Spa for Paws, meanwhile, was booked until New Year’s with canines seeking to look their holiday best.

As I approached the rehearsal grounds, Max, the Border Collie, was a streak of black and white, zipping to and fro, line perfect and posed to fetch any props gone astray. Bella, ballerina gracing Pawsburgh with her presence, glided by with an elegance that made even the snowflakes halt mid-air, granting her the stage.

A quick detour by Rottweiler’s Ribs tempted me, the aromas billowing out like the Ghost of Christmas Dinner, but my noble snout was not to be swayed. The show! That was my ham bone to pick!

On stage, the lights twinkled with such potency, one could believe they rivaled the stars above. My dear friends, my fellow thespians, assembled, throwing themselves into the festive portrayal as if it were their last game of fetch. I steeled myself. It was my cue—all four paws planted firmly, a deep breath drawn in, and—

“A hearty bark to you all, and a happy holiday jeer,” I projected, emphasis on the tongue-in-cheek. My Sarah had always found Dorothy Parker’s wit divine, and I hoped to channel her sharpness with my own canine twist. This elicited a chuckle from the crowd of furry faces.

Frolicking through my lines with a surprising nimbleness, I sensed a new warmth; it wasn’t just the stage lights melting the snow from my coat. It was connection—communal, with a hint of improv as Max chased a wayward snowball into the wings.

Then, in the finale, came the grand descent of fake snow from above, drifting like confectioner’s sugar. Cheers erupted, resounding off the flurried landscape, as we took a collective bow. Pups of all sizes, cats peeking curiously from the Fetching Feline Pet Emporium—all of Pawsburgh, really—wore their joy like a new collar.

As the applause waned and the snow resumed its silent waltz to the earth, I trekked home, my mind replaying the night’s triumph. I’d regale Sarah with tales, cozy by the crackling hearth. A mischievous grin spread beneath my whiskers as I picked up the pace, the idea of a warm bed and those peanut butter biscuits compelling my paws forwards quicker than any dramatic exit I’d made all night.

Snowflakes settled softly upon my friendly face, as I, Hank, the soulful-eyed bard of Pawsburgh, reflected on the joys of simple tastes and the love of wintery theater. White Christmas Whiskers, indeed—a season reprised, old friendships cast in fresh snow, and perhaps, if the stars would have it, the beginnings of a new tale to be told amidst the spirited howls under the Yuletide moon.

The End.