Hey, just chilling in Yuletide Square reminiscing. I’m the tale’s faithful Gunner who stood by Scrooge, the coin-clinging miser, until those spirited hauntings turned his ledgers to generosity spreadsheets. Now I’m the sidekick of a reformed penny-pincher turned holiday hero, feasting on grilled chicken and living the Spencerville dream. Catch me on Red Beagle, wagging tails and changing hearts. 🎄🐾

-G Man

Listen to the story here

As I stretched my limbs on the plush grass of Yuletide Square, the hustle and bustle of Spencerville tickled my senses with the usual fervor. Red Beagle Beach lay quiet in the distance, taking its winter’s nap, while my thoughts ambled back to my days before Spencerville, before the snowflakes danced liked feathered jesters in the sky of our quaint little town.

There lived once, you see, back yonder, a man whom I loved like any good dog might love a curmudgeonly master. His heart, shielded in a fortress of gold coins and ledger books, scarcely had room to let a poor creature like myself in. But there I stayed, steadfast and loyal. They called him Scrooge—and rightfully so, for he had a fondness for saving a penny and a passion for hoarding them piles taller than South Siberian Summit.

My days were simple then, with limited expectations and a belly too often acquainted with hunger. Grilled chicken, which I now greatly favor at Pooched Potatoes, was a mere phantom to salivate over in my dreams. Scrooge would munch on tasteless gruel, his lips puckered as if a rogue citrus had danced upon his tongue, a flavor I ’bout understand to detest.

A Christmas Eve came upon us, wrapped in a chilly breeze that whispered of change. Scrooge sat hunched over his papers—a miserly spider in his cobweb of calculations—while I lay coiled, dreaming of the squeak of chickens, both rubber and roasted. That night specters visited, most peculiar and persuasive, shaking the very marrow of my master’s selfish bones.

Their tale wove through the loom of time, unraveling the knotted threads of a heart long neglected. I witnessed it all, my tail wagging to the rhythm of their otherworldly presence. They showed my master his past generosity, buried like a bone deep and forgotten, then spun a future as bleak as an overcast sky in the heart of winter, should his ways remain unaltered.

The morning sun after those spectral visitations broke on the horizon like an overcooked yolk – changing everything. Scrooge, now with a heart blooming quicker than springtime at Chihuahua Castle, flung open the windows proclaiming his newfound charity. His laughter, once a stranger to the air, now played a merry tune alongside the ringing bells of Spencerville.

That day, I feasted on grilled chicken beside my giddy master and watched, with those soulful eyes of mine, as he spread his wealth with an energy he’d never shown. To each needy paw and hungry maw, he gifted warmth and satisfaction. I sat by his side, Gunner, once the companion of a miser, now the confidant of a man reborn in the spirit of giving.

Ever since, here in Spencerville, folks often murmur about that fabled Christmas of my master, that unveiling of a Scrooge-turned-Saint under the holiday moon. With friends like the courageous collie next door and that daredevil terrier, we recount the legend, mixing past and present in a tapestry as varied as my own fur.

So, take a lesson or don’t, from this tale of a Bernese Mountain Dog’s loyalty and the grumpy old man who learned to love a good holiday. For every rubber chicken and slice of grilled chicken, every belly rub and scratch behind the ears, is as much a part of the story as the transformation of the heart. And as for me, loyal Gunner with a heart brimmed full of adventure, I’ll be here, spinning tales and awaiting the day I see that old man’s face in the gentle Spencerville breeze.

The End.