Heya hooman,

Just rocked the stage at Fido’s Feast tonight—turned into a doggone legend under the spotlight. Think heroic leaps, epic growls, and Smaug totally ‘defeated’. Scored some peanut butter glory and a tail-whirl of applause. Pawsburgh’s sparkling brighter tonight, and it ain’t just the snow. 🐾

Catch you in the morning,
Raider 🐕✨

Listen to the story here

In the heart of a town aglow with yuletide spirit and a fresh layer of snow that dusted every picket fence and frosted window, a dog named Raider led a peculiar double life. True, by day he was known to be a Pit Bull mix of striking black and white, with a disposition as mutable as the clouds racing above Pawsburgh. By night? Well, let’s say, my world unfolded like the petals of a mystical flower under the moonlight’s caress.

I’d tell you more, but where’s the fun in spoiling the secret of our very own frost-kissed canine hamlet? Let’s just say, every snowflake that kissed my black coat was a ticket to a thrilling saga at Newfoundland Nook – our own little corner of doggy nirvana.

It was at Fido’s Feast where our Christmas revelries began to stir. You see, I may not be the most boisterous chap around, but when the scent of peanut butter wafted through the chilly air, well, my heart did somersaults, and my paws followed suit.

Our little nook was putting on a Christmas show. And I, Raider, with my plush dragon Smaug securely in tow, had decided to venture into the uncharted territory of performance. Why, you ask? Oh, the things we do for tradition and a spoonful of merriment with friends under the banner of twinkling fairy lights.

“So, Raider, what’s your act going to be?” Toby inquired, his beagle ears perked as high as the Pomeranian Park’s flagpole.

The truth was, I hadn’t the foggiest. I recalled the cat, Whiskers, an old chum with more wisdom in his whiskers than all the books in The Doggy Depot. But advice on the theatrics wasn’t quite his cup of catnip. Still, an act without a whisker of doubt had to be a spectacle that captured the magic of Pawsburgh, a show that sparkled like the ice on Jade Jack Russell Junction’s eponymous statues.

At The Groom Room, I got brushed and fluffed, picking up the sheen of a lone star in the night sky. My fur was my costume, my spirit, the story. But what’s a performance without a twist? Say, a furry miscreant sprinting across the stage, pursued by his own antics? Yes, that would be a sight!

The night of the show, the curtain rose to an overture of anticipatory barks and whines. My friends dotted the audience, their tails weaving a rhythmic tapstry in the frosty air. It was my turn. Heart in my gorge, I stepped lightly into the limelight, Smaug grasped in my jaws. And then… improvisation took hold.

I wove through a maze of imaginary foes, battling for the glory of Pawsburgh. Each leap and bound, a dance with shadows; each growl and woof, a note in an untold epic. The crowd roared approval, or maybe it was the wind singing through the rafters—it was hard to tell with the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

As the act ended, I lay there, a pretend slumber atop my valiantly ‘slain’ dragon, with peanut butter as my just reward. The applause was warm and hearty, a Christmas pudding of pure joy. Delight flickered in every eye, connecting each of us, canine and critter alike.

Maybe it was the spirit of Pawsburgh, or just that special yuletide charm, but that night, new romances sparked under the mistletoe and old friendships glowed brighter than the street lamps lining the path to The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium.

As I watched the snowflakes perform their silent pirouettes, I realized that perhaps my favorite thing wasn’t just a treat or a tussle with Smaug. No, it was this; these moments when every paw print in the snow tells a story, and every cold nose finds warmth in the camaraderie of fellow hearts beating in festive symphony.

The End.