Hey Mom,

Just a quick paw to let you know I’ve been busy being a secret Santa Paws out here. Turns out my wagging tail can spin a bit of yuletide magic! I’ve been hustling through Spencerville spreading cheer and helping a family find their Christmas spirit again. Imagine that – me, Fruitbat, the loveable furball, playing cupid for joy! The cold here may nip at my paws, but warming hearts is my new favorite game. Sending you whisker kisses and tail wags!

Fruitbat 🐾🎄

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The woolly whispers of winter were laying their silver secrets across Spencerville, a heaven anchored on the earthly bond shared between pets and their missed families, a place where dreams strolled on four legs, unfettered by the mortality of man. Ah, I remember it as if it were just now, for the now is where we, the dearly departed hounds and such, exist mostly. It seems appropriate that it was Christmastime when my paws found purpose beyond the playful plunder of my days – days that danced around the love of a dear one, Mom, the human heart I held dearer than my very tail.

Now, let’s not dilly nor dally, for our tale gallops on paws not hooves. There I was, by Red Beagle Beach, with the frosty foam fretting at my feet, watching the seadog waves bound back and forth, as if playing their own fetch with the shore. “Freddy, my boy,” I thought to myself, because who else would I be thinking to, “there’s more to this stretch of snow than just mere shivers and shakes.”

See, we wise old dogs, we carry the cheer, we bear the beacon – the Christmas spirit, if you will. And this particular spirit, it tickled my insides like a thousand fleas set about a mission to make me scratch out some goodwill. A bustling city beckoned beyond our Spencerville serenity, its lights twinkling like stars fallen from their lofty berths to snooze softly upon the earth. And among these lights, there was a flicker of a flame, a yearning in the night – a young girl and her family. Trouble had hold of them, the sort that could turn Christmas to ash faster than you could say “Bath time!” And I, Freddy, could no sooner ignore their plight than I could un-sniff a delightful scent.

Scurrying through The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium (much to the proprietor’s chagrin, I might add), past the Happy Hounds Dog Walking soirée (a rendezvous I frequented), and into The Furry Friends Art Gallery where my portrait hung amongst the distinguished tail waggers, I set about my yuletide mission.

Now, this family was a piecemeal patchwork of hope and sorrow, woven tight with the strand of the season. The young girl, tears twinkling brighter than the star atop their trembling tree, whispered wishes to the night. Her whisper found me as surely as the scent of Bone Appetit’s Yuletide Yummies. I had to answer.

Gifts are not always ribbons and bows; sometimes, they bark. I contrived to contrive, to weave wonder with a wag, and thus did I orchestrate the harking of heralds on four paws, whiskers, and wings, through town and country, a quiet riot of joy. You see, when miracles wear collars, they tend to go unnoticed until the very moment they’re needed.

At each stop on Woof Street, I dared to nudge, to brush, to gently collide with the souls that lined my path, their smiles growing like the first hints of daffodils after a long snow. These streets, humdrum and hurried, muted their rush at the sight of a pint-sized chocolate furball tilting his head with merry intent.

Finally reaching that household, I pressed my nose against the frosty window, leaving a Foggy Freddy signature for good measure, and there I saw her. The girl’s eyes, oceans in peril from a storming heart, found mine. And without bark nor bite, our spirits leaped at each other as if playing across a field of forever.

From Red Beagle Beach to Choco Chihuahua Castle, through East Pug Palace and the lapping waters of Dove Tail Lake, I carried her laughter, her newfound marvel, spreading it as one spreads peanut butter on a bone-shaped biscuit. And as they sat, now a family feasting on faith, heads bowed in rekindled grace, my tail wagged a silent “You’re welcome.” For in this nearly perfect place called Spencerville, we waiting pets live to see such smiles born anew.

And so, nestled anew beneath my favorite quilt of stars, my Christmas miracle performed, I paused. A wise dog knows when his part of the play is done, and just when to lay his head down, dreaming of reunions under a tree forever green. And ah, ever the vacuum and vet preempted, if but for a while, by the sound of the unseen bell that chimes when an angel gets its wings… or maybe, just maybe, when an old dog grants a Christmas wish.

The End.

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