Pawsburgh’s Twelve Days of Floof and Folly: A Tails PawWord Story

Hey Jamie! 🐾 Adventure update: I’ve become Pawsburgh’s furriest holiday champion! 🎄😎 Survived Buster’s enthusiasm, led a cat-less catnapping rescue, got a punk pine tree ‘do, & bumbled through carols. 😂 Embraced the chaos, right up to savoring kibble with my pals on Xmas! Heading home, my tail’s wagging tales of a floofy festive frolic. 🐶❤️ – The Tailster

Listen to the story here

In the fantastical town of Pawsburgh, enveloped by the scent of Corgi’s Crepes and the sizzling sounds from Barking BBQ, the spirit of Christmas swirled and swathed like a cozy blanket over the frolicking four-pawers. Being Tails, a Mini Maltese of considerable charm and no small amount of floof, I found myself the unwitting hero of an escapade that began one snowy, squeaky-bone morning, twelve days before the big ‘Ho-Ho-Ho’.

On the first day, my pal Buster – a bulldog with the constitution of a tank and the heart of a teddy bear – showed up on my doorstep. Or rather, I should say he bulldozed his way into my morning. “Tails, old chum, shall we embark to Hound Heights? I hear there’s a surprise waiting!” he barked, eyebrows wiggling with mischief.

The second day drew me to Fetch! Toys and Treats, where Whiskers and Pip, the most peculiar members of our buddy brigade, accompanied me. A veritable buffet of squishy delights awaited, but it was a squeaky replica of the fabled Rudolph that caught my attention. Heaven in a chew toy!

Day three surprised us with an unchew-nate event. “A catnapping at Amber Akita Alley!” exclaimed Whiskers, irony lost on her. Indeed, the alley was mysteriously quiet, but, armed with my crescent-moon marked ear and bold spirit, I led the charge, tripping over nothing but thin air, tail propelling me back upright. It turned out to be a false alarm; a holiday movie marathon had all the felines engrossed.

Christmas cheer went on, and the fourth date had us decking the halls of Pinscher Plaza. “Now this,” I panted with pride, “is a proper Paw-liday display!” The fifth day, we feasted at Paw-lickin’ Pancakes, everything tasting better without a hint of citrus – a lemony aroma could’ve spurred a tailspin of epic proportions.

As the stars twinkled into the sixth eve, our antics at The Pampered Pooch Salon, while hilarious, left me with an accidental Mohawk. “It’s avant-garde,” cajoled a snickering Whiskers. “I look like a punk rock pine tree…”

The seventh day’s excursion involved caroling canines at The Snooty Snout Boutique; turns out, even dogs can be off-key. We turned sheepish when our chorus was drowned out by uproarious laughter, not that we didn’t join in the merriment.

Day eight spiraled into chaos at the sight of mistletoe in Pinscher Plaza. No one knew where to stand or whom to nuzzle; cue the Benny Hill theme. By day nine, we traded our dignity for tinsel and ornaments at Corgi’s Crepes. The tenth day, Buster donned a Santa suit – imagine a spherical St. Nick wedged in a chimney.

The penultimate eve brought a snowfall that blanketed our town in white, turning Pawsburgh into a silvery wonderland. We dogs took to it like ducks to water, or more aptly, bulldogs to skidding.

Finally, Christmas arrived. In the spirit of Mel Brooks, you could say it was a Silent Night, but only insofar as we were all out of breath from our exploits. “To friendship!” I toasted, raising a bowl of chicken-infused kibble. “And to all a good night!”

Back in the real world, I returned to Jamie, my loving human, doused in the scent of misadventures and wearing my mohawk with an air of ridiculous dignity. With a wag and a yip, I shared with him the tales of Tails: my twelve days of Christmas in Pawsburgh, a reminder of joy, camaraderie, and the madcap mirth that Christmas – and life – should be brimming with.

The End.