Hey fam,

Just checking in from Spencerville, where even a pug like me gets to play hero in our own tail-wagging tale. I’ve been dining with fellow Waiting Wags, reminiscing about you all as the yuletide nears. There might be doggy galas and moonlit musings, but you’re always with me in spirit, especially with Christmas upon us. Love to all – here’s to finding a touch of magic and hoping our paths cross again soon. Missing you bunches and sending holiday cheer from across the veil.

Yours with a wag and a woof,
Merlin 🐾

Listen to the story here

Sunlight warmed the cobbled stones of Spencerville as I, Merlin the pug, took to the bustling streets, sweeping past the rows of quaint shops that smelled like dreams and tasted like hope. Truth be told, as much as this place was a hodgepodge of canine joy, it drew near Christmas, and the heartstrings played a carol of longing for the humans we’d left behind.

Today, I was set to meet at The Cat’s Meow Sushi with a beagle named Benedict – we had a sort of club, the Waiting Wags, for those of us traversing the velvet path without our people. We gathered, nipping at salmon rolls, streaming tales of love and loyalty through the air like paper planes.

You must understand, life here mimicked the old world, with a touch of something akin to magic. The Tan Dalmatian Desert radiated heat without the discomfort, and the Lower Silver Siberian Summit dusted us with snow that never chilled the bones. Yet even the Northern Choco Chihuahua Castle, standing regal and chocolate-kissed against the skyline, could not overshadow the memories of home.

“Oh, cheer up, Merlin,” chided Benedict, noting my holiday mood was more Dickens than Dick Clark. “Just think, we’ve got The Tail Wagger’s Tailor’s gala next week. That should be a rouser.”

Indeed, the gala. A chance to don the nattiest of collars and bow-ties; where even tails such as ours could twirl with grace — or at the very least, wag with purpose. Nevertheless, beneath the heartened appliqué of our existence, lay the soft, timorous pitter-patter of my yearning soul.

The days ticked down to Christmas with the precision of a gate unlatched, each swing closer to reunion, or so the legend told. Sprawled in the lushness of my backyard kingdom, between fits and starts of gnawing on that captivatingly defiant monkey, I wondered if my humans might be whispering my name into the silent night.

Wasn’t it fabled around town that when you could feel the holiday spirit dancing on your tongue like the last crumb of Pup-Peroni, your human’s heart was there, nibbling at the edge of our veil?

Evening draped itself across Spencerville, festive lanterns bobbed in the gentle breeze. We strayed from our paths of contented solitude, scratching at the door of companionship. The Waiting Wags convened at Bark Burgers, for nothing mends like good chatter and a side of chow.

“And what if we head to The Canine Cafe afterwards? Their hot toddy will knock the frost off your thoughts,” mused a spaniel by the name of Carlotta, her ears swaying like chorus girls to the beat of her excitement.

A fine idea it was. Carlotta had the wisdom of a creature twice her legs. I made mental note to keep her company on these stark Spencerville nights; for the texture of shared whispers under the alabaster glow of Moon spelled comfort like a warm blanket.

As our pack ambled through the wintery evening, I passed by a mural that splashed the town’s legend across the bricks. It depicted us, fur and heart alike, suspended in the perfect pause of joy, a carousel of tomorrows spinning with the possibility of reunion.

I am Merlin, the pug who wears his name like a crown and his longing like a cloak brushed with snowflakes. Yet, fret not, for in this tapestry of toe-beans and tail wags, I have found the marrow of life’s bone – that all of us yearn, love, and pause at the same threshold, awaiting a door to swing wide beneath the mistletoe. Love, actually, it seems, is all around—pawsitively.

The End.