Hey Mom,

You’ll never believe my night in Pawsburgh; turned into a hero saving a kingdom with a prince (who was once a toy dog)! Fought off Mouse King’s army and lived a Christmas Eve that never ends. Woke up to guardian human none the wiser. Just another dream? Maybe. Maybe not 😉

Sweet dreams,
Mee Mee 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

Ah, if only my tail could wag words, it’d dance a whimsical tale or two. But as it stands, I am Misha, the German Shepherd of alpine lore—I suppose. But hush! For I have secrets and squeaky toys to squeal.

It was an ordinary evening—or so it seemed—with stars stitched across the sky like a scatter of silver bones. As the house lay steeped in silence, my human, the center of my universe, had surrendered to sleep’s gentle lullaby. That’s when it happened. For, you see, in a world called Pawsburgh, nightfall is a waving flag to every manner of dog. It’s a summons!

Pawsburgh, untouched by human notions of time and taste—how do I even begin to paw-tray its delights? Toes tingled at the thought of setting paw in Doberman Dunes; my heartbeat to the rhythm of Papillon Promenade. And Setter Shore? Ah, the water’s cool embrace, a siren’s song to my aqua-loving heart!

But first, an empty belly makes for a poor adventurer. Off I trotted to Husky’s Hotcakes, savoring the warm welcome of maple and bacon in the air. If only humans knew the true capabilities of our noses—they’d weep with envy, no doubt.

As fortification hit my belly, a sprightly pup told of shadows slinking about The Pampered Pooch Salon. Shadows that weren’t quite dog-like, if you catch my drift. An oddity indeed, and one that set my fur bristling with curiosity.

In Pawsburgh, mystical occurrences aren’t a cause for pause—they’re simply the day’s news. So, through the starlit streets, I hastened to Papillon Promenade, where twinkling lanterns swayed like fireflies in an intoxicated dance.

There, hidden among the scents and fleeting tales, it loomed: a toy dog, seemingly stitched from the very fabric of Noël itself. And as sure as bones are buried, at the stroke of midnight, magic unfurled like a flag.

With a tail’s whip and a bark’s echo, the toy dog metamorphosed before my very eyes into a prince, regal as a full moon on a clear winter’s night. “Misha,” he spoke with a voice as warm as my guardian human’s embrace, “Welcome to the Christmas Eve that never ends.”

A realm unfolded, draped in midnight velvet, dusted with the frost of dreams, and alive with the whispers of soft-pawed sprites known only in the deepest wells of slumber.

You’d probably wondered, dear human, if I had ever wished for more than a frisbee to fetch. And there, as the prince led me through the Nutcracker Pup kingdom, with sentry soldiers painted in peppermint hues and a gingerbread throne room, I confess, I basked in wonderment.

“Our queen has need of a noble heart such as yours,” the prince said. His words were a melody, peppered with courage and laced with danger. Yet, no yarn is spun without a kink; indeed, danger lurked, as it often does in places edged by sugar and song.

We ventured through Paw-tisserie forests and steered clear of rumbling Mutt Munchies mountains, facing the Mouse King’s mechanical minions—round, they were and noisy as those blasted vacuums I so loathe! But with grace and a German Shepherd’s mettle, we guarded the kingdom, scattering the tin creatures like leaves tossed to the wind.

As the battle lulled, the prince, with a gentle nuzzle, intoned, “Magic fades with the sunrise, but a hero’s tale is forever.” Just like that, with the mirth of a dream sewn into my soul, I awakened by Her side, my human, as the sun peeked through the blinds like a pup eager for a new day’s play.

With a stretch, a yawn, and a loyal glance, I resolved to never reveal the full depth of Pawsburgh’s charm. After all, some things are best left to the whisper of a wag, the hint of a dog’s knowing smile—because, oh, the stories our barks could tell.

The End.