Hey Sarah, just played the lead in Pawsburg’s Christmas spectacle, charming the socks off both two and four-legged audience members. Plus, met a Husky named Aurora who’s got me howling at the moon. Stage triumph and maybe a dash of romance? Quite the day! 🎭🐾❄️ – Loki 🐶

Listen to the story here

Oh, the whimsical wonders of being Loki! You know me—the stocky grey prince with eyes that dance with ideas and a singular white badge of character upon my chest. Pawsburg hums with Yuletide spirit, and I find myself padding along Sapphire Schnauzer Street, the snowflakes waltzing down like an aimless troupe of cold moths.

It’s the season of tinsel and treat, and the air shimmers with a tale waiting to unfurl. Sarah had dashed off on some festive errand, leaving me to the call of Pawsburg’s siren song and a day as open as a present under the tree.

I traipse towards Pomeranian Park, my breath icing the air; it thrums with the pre-show electricity. This is no ordinary romp through the drifts—it’s the day we, the canines of charisma, weave a Christmas tableau to make our humans weep with joy, or at least chuckle before returning to their eggnog and inescapable family squabbles.

Max bounds up to me, his beagle ears flopping like loose wrapping paper. “You’re late, Loki! Rehearsal started an age ago,” he barks amidst stifled laughter.

“Punctuality was never my virtu,” I confess with a snort. “But I bring enthusiasm by the sled-load.”

Daisy, dappled as a snow-dusted morning herself, leads the choreography, her spotted tail metronomic with each step. Max and I join with a mischief of mutts against a backdrop of frost-bitten trees.

Our venue isn’t Palladium or Pawsford Theatre, just the humble stage of Pomeranian Park, but our ambitions scrape the skies—almost as much as the fire hydrant over on Briard Bridge.

We break for what Max tastefully calls “creative refueling,” and the band of blissful barkers flocks to Pom’s Pies. Inside, the air is aromatic with pup-approved spices and warmed beef. Not a citrus in sight to wrinkle my snout, mind you.

Just as they serve a slice of canine cheer, she enters. A newcomer with a blizzard in her coat, a Husky with eyes like ice chips in a glass of fine gin. The room’s chatter hushes like a dimmed carol.

“They call her Aurora,” Max informs with the delicacy of basset hounds on tiptoes. “She can yowl carols like a symphony of church bells.”

Aurora takes a stage by the counter, lifting her snout to the heavens. What follows is a serenade worthy of a winter divine. I’m spellbound, and whatever thoughts I held freeze like a statue.

“Introduce yourself,” Max nudges, a gleam in his knowing eye.

Shall I? Oh, I shall! With the stealth of Santa’s elves, I advance.

“Evening, Aurora. Loki’s the name – thespian, connoisseur of peanut butter, and admirer of fine yowling.”

Our chat circles from weather to wardrobe, her smile throwing sparks to dry timber. Dare I say, a friendship… no, something warmer blooms like poinsettias in the snow.

We join at the rehearsal, practiced paw-steps now buoyed by laughter. The show promises joy, warmth to paw-pads, and perhaps, just perhaps, the start of a frosty romance.

Night blankets Pawsburg, the constellation Canis Major winking down, and our Christmas show unfolds. Snowflakes serve as confetti, and I steal glances at Aurora, whose voice rings clearer than any bell.

After bows and licks aplenty, it’s a night to remember, to share in whispers to Sarah beneath the quilt. Pawsburg, my snowy noel, my stage of jubilation—I would chase your fleeting sunsets forever, but tonight, it is you who’ve caught me, heart, tail, and whiskers.

The End.