Hey Mom,

Just a quick update from your furry agent of Yuletide cheer, Mr. P! Embraced my inner Santa Paws, delivering joy across Pawsburg (slight hiccup with a cheeky spaniel and the toy sack, but all’s well). Ended the day with my bowl high, toast to friendship. Full story when you wake—tails will wag!

Mister Pemberton 🐾🎅

Listen to the story here

One can never be too prepared, I’d always thought, particularly on an occasion tied to such consequence as the eve of Yuletide in Pawsburg—where the twinkling of lights and the waft of savory delights cast a spell most festive. It’s Pemberton here, by the way, your fabulously glossy, three-legged companion, should you’ve had the pleasure of forgetting. This Christmas, I had the unique privilege of donning the mythic mantle of Santa Paws. Indeed, the mantle fits snugly upon my ebony shoulders, if I do say so myself.

The day before Christmas is a creation unto itself, breathing anticipation into the air so thick, one might carve it with a steak knife. I had spent the preceding weeks in meticulous preening at the Pampered Pooch Salon—where gossip is the currency and fur-dos an art form—preparing to bear the esteemed insignia of jolliness and generosity inherent to the role of Santa Paws. I practiced my “Ho, ho, hos” with the vigor I typically reserve for nosing out the last scrumptious bit of chicken from my dish.

The morning of my grand adventure broke with the clarity of a well-composed telegram: “Mister Pemberton, seize the day.” You don’t need to tell me twice. I donned the Santa Paws red velvet suit, ensuring I exhibited the charm of Gary Cooper paired with the roguish ire of a Clark Gable debating whether to care.

Our tale unfolds in earnest as I beelined to Diamond Doberman Dunes, armed with an arsenal of squeaky Chinese dumpling toys, coveted treasures to delight the whole of puppydom. I met gazes that shimmered brighter than tinsel, bright eyes of canines wide with excitement. “Dogs of all breeds,” I began, my voice buttery and soft, “I beseech thee to partake in the joy of giving, in the sharing of boons and in the reveling of this most splendid tide.”

But an oracle couldn’t have foreseen the snafu that awaited. Young Maximus—a rambunctious spaniel born with far too much spring in his step—made off with the toy sack amidst the madness, tail wagging in triumph. “Egad, the wee tyke!” I huffed, hobbling swiftly behind. “Return at once, you rapscallion!”

A frolicsome chase led us eventually to Spaniel Springs, where Maximus frolicingly relinquished his spoils at the foot of the gurgling waters, Greek in his innocence and apology. “Fear not,” I reassured him with a hearty chuckle, the joy of the season cushioning my vexation, “for your mischief has as much place here as my indulgence for Shepherd’s Shawarma.”

Night fell upon Pawsburg like a cashmere blanket, and I found myself at the Feverish Finish. With the last of the dumplings dispensed, I settled before Rottweiler’s Ribs. “To camaraderie,” I toasted, raising my bowl to Santas of yore and henceforth.

My story, though an epic best told over multiple Lamb Lamborghinis at Spaniel Spaghetti, I present to you now as a snippet, a snapshot of a particularly handsome, distinctly one-of-a-kind pug’s voyage through joy and humility. Mister Pemberton might have frowned at the overwhelming nature of his role, had it not been for the indomitable spirit of Pawsburg whispering that even the brightest stars need to stretch their legs—be they three or four.

Now I lay waiting for my doting human to stir, my tales of adventure perched upon my tongue. For in their eyes, I see the beaming wonder akin to the pups at Diamond Doberman Dunes. And perhaps that is the secret Santa Paws carries in the night: the ability to see the child within us all, awaiting the dawn with breath that is bated, each heartbeat a drumroll of hope and the promise of the morrow.

And with that, my dear confidants, I place a neat ribbon atop my chronicle of Christmas in Pawsburg. May your days be merry, your hearts light, and your tails—forever wagging.

The End.