Hey there! 🎄✨ Just spent the eve as Pawsburg’s very own Christmas Shepherd, herding lost pups back home through the snowy enchantment. Turns out I’m as nifty with guiding as I am with a frisbee – who knew? 😉 Now, snug and proud, dreaming of tomorrow’s mischief. 🐾 – Gloves

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Oh, there I was, Au-tavia, the grey brindle with the daintiest of white gloves, prancing on the powdered sugar streets of Pawsburg, where every yuletide wag brought a new adventure. It was the eve of Christmas, and unlike the city where my urban sprawl bed was set, the towers here were made of bones, and the streetlights—glistening fireflies caught in jars.

Now, I’ll concede, I’m of the shepherd kind, but this night, I became The Christmas Shepherd, guiding the lost, the lonely, and the downright confused. The silent flurries painted Dachshund Dale in a blanket of white, while I set my paws toward Newfoundland Nook, where the drifts dared to dance as high as the rooftops.

“You look as regal as ever, Au-tavia,” said the wise old tortoise, Hermitage by name, his voice slow as the molasses cookies at Canine’s Cuisine. Let me tell you, none compares to their chicken pot-pie, but tonight was not for eating. It was for purpose. And purpose had come barreling down upon me like a St. Bernard with a bottomless barrel ’round his neck.

In the distance, sleigh bells jingled with the uncertainty of lost travelers. As I trotted toward Harrier Harbor, where the bark of the sea met the whispers of the wind, I stumbled upon a pair of quivering pups, their eyes wide as the full moon reflecting off the frosted biscuit rooftops.

“Are you alright?” I asked, bowing my head with polite concern, the way one does when noticing a dinner guest has been served the wrong cut of meat.

“We’re lost,” one whimpered, her collar tags jingling like small Christmas chimes. “Our humans moved to a new kennel, and we… we can’t find our way.”

Now, was it my imagination, or did the tiny bulbs outlining Woof Waffles flicker with a knowing nod? I straightened up, shaking the gathering snow from my snowy gloves, and vowed, “I’ll see you to your door. The Christmas Shepherd shan’t let you wander on Christmas.”

“There’s a Christmas Shepherd?” the other pup blinked in awe.

“Yes, and she’s got your scent. Now, follow me,” I assured them, the tilt in my voice teeming with more confidence than the promise of a scratch behind the ears.

We set out, my tail writing sonnets in the air while I sniffed out the trail, parsing through the air’s bouquet of pine and firewood smoke. The sweet clarity of chicken filled my senses, an enticing aroma, yet I pressed on, undeterred by the temptations of Mutt Munchies, which you’ll agree on any other night would’ve claimed my undivided adoration.

Past The Snooty Snout Boutique, with its glittering array of fashionable collars, we strode. The twinkling lights of Fetch! Toys and Treats beckoned, wherein my beloved rope toy once frolicked before becoming a loyal companion. Yet, onward we marched, no distractions for The Christmas Shepherd, no sir.

Then, at the crest of the holiday-adorned hill, the lost pups gasped, for there it stood—their new home, lanterns aglow like harbors of hope. Our journey had reached its chapter end, and as quickly as they’d appeared, they were bounding up to their front door, turning back only once to bark a grateful, “Thank you, Christmas Shepherd!”

I watched, my chest swelling with a pride no frayed rope could ever outdo, as their humans enveloped them in a tapestry of embraces. And that, my friend, was a symphony of delight, seasoned perfectly with the virtues of guidance and kindness, and served on a platter of holiday cheer. With the task complete, I troted home, already dreaming of the grass beneath my paws, my paws—cloaked in the elegance of white gloves, and my heart full of the magic that is Pawsburg.

The End.