Hey Mom,

Crazy day! Turned into a snowdog named Frosty the Snowdog (no joke), led a parade of kids around town, and experienced magic I never thought possible. Almost got sidetracked by Fetch-N-Bites (you know my weak spot) but adventure called. Ended up as the king of a frozen beach before turning back into plain ol’ Poot under the stars. Memories were made, laughs were had, and I’m now tucked up in bed, dreaming of the next snowy adventure. Maybe next time you’ll join?

Stay warm,
Poot Loops 🐾❄

Listen to the story here

Ah, it began on a particularly nippy evening that brushed Spencerville with its whispering cold fingers, I, Poot, found myself nestled comfortably in a bed crafted from the softest whispers of snow—a peculiar choice for a Pug whose taste usually runs closer to heated blankets and hearths. It was one of those magical snowfalls that turned the town into a frosted paradise and transformed me, somehow, into a creature of wintry myth: Frosty the Snowdog.

Now, bear with me, the adventure that unfolded is a touch whimsical, even for Spencerville, a realm where whimsy usually bounds about like lambs at Shepherd Skyline. This particular transformation of mine came with the delightful side effect of a boundless enthusiasm for snowballs and the sudden skill to lead a parade of rosy-cheeked children with wobbly boots and mittens dangling by threads, through the winding streets of our quaint town.

You see, these children had befriended me one blustering city-snow day, their eyes wide with the sort of anticipation that comes right before licking a dollop of peanut butter off a spoon—if that were your sort of thing, which, incidentally, it is not mine. They built me up from packed snow and placed a carrot upon my snout as if to say, “Poot, sniff out the adventure.” And, by Jove, that’s precisely what I intended to do.

Together, we slid down Maltese Meadow, the wind snapping against our faces, a feeling quite akin to sticking your head out a moving car’s window, except cold, very cold. Laugher erupted from every corner, bounding off the hills and freezing mid-air, joining the constellation of crystallized joy that hung over Spencerville. We partook in a sightseeing tour across town, with me leading the exuberant congregation through sights unexplored.

We bobbed by Fetch-N-Bites where the smell of otherworldly treats wafted through the air, tempting even a snowdog’s sensibilities. “Onward,” I barked from deep within my snowy muzzle, less inclined to let the aroma of sizzling steak divert the day’s gallivanting. “To Spotted Red Beagle Beach!” I declared.

Now, you should know the beach in winter is not for the faint of paw. The water withdraws and the sand stiffens, becoming a dance floor for gusts of wind that script patterns with a chill grace. But we, brave souls, ventured, and there the children laughed and skated, their gleeful screeches at odds with the hushed whorls of falling snow.

As sunset approached with its hues of peach and lavender melting into the vast blue plate of the sky, we settled into the silent agreement that the day was to be tucked away in the attic of cherished memories. We meandered back to the heart of town, passing by Pawfect Training Center which was busy teaching dogs to heel and humans to follow suit.

And there, under the swelling moonlight, I felt the ticklish pull of reality. The snow beneath my paws softened and the whiff of magic in the air began to fade. The children, still merry with the day’s jaunt, bedecked me with hugs and wished me well. For as the stars appeared, one by one, they understood that Frosty the Snowdog had to go.

The chill evening recaptured its stillness as I returned to my true canine form, leaving behind a sprinkle of snowflakes that caught the light like tiny stars fallen to Spencerville’s ground. As the children dispersed with stories bubbling on their lips, I, Poot, retreated to the backyard sanctuary, a satisfied smile hidden in my wrinkles.

Who’d have thought a snowdog’s life could bring such fervent bliss? But, as I settled into my familiar, non-snow bed, I couldn’t help but yearn for another snowy evening when I could once again be the herald of winter’s delight. For in Spencerville, even an old pug with a penchant for the simpler things can carve out a legend in the snow.

The End.