Hey Mom,

Caught the Polar Pooch Express for a wild ride to the North Pole! Met cool critters, chewed over tall tails, and shared a tail wag with Santa Paws himself. Gonna need a bigger bed for all these stories. Back soon with frost on my whiskers and a heart full of yuletide cheer!

Stay warm,
Queeny Bean 🐾❄️🚂

Listen to the story here

The night was a thick quilt of December, the kind of cold that wrapped around you like a straightjacket, and there I was – Queeny, brindle fur on end, standing before the gleaming monolith of the Polar Pooch Express. The whistle howled its eerie song, cutting through the crisp air as snowflakes played their dizzying dance around the platform of Poodle Pond Station.

I never thought I’d be the one to rail against the frigid embrace of the endless white, considering my deep-seated disdain for anything that even mimicked a bath. Yet, there I was, ticket clenched in my teeth, the faint scent of green beans clinging to my breath from a hasty dinner, ready to board the locomotive that legend said could sprint across dreams.

My paws left a trail of fresh imprints as I climbed aboard, every fiber in my body tensed tighter than Sampson’s fetch rope when he got that glint in his eye. The train’s interior was an expanse of polished wood panels, gleaming steel fixtures, and an assortment of creatures that made the Snooty Snout Boutique’s clientele look downright mundane.

With a heave and a ho, the Polar Pooch Express embarked, the world outside the window dissolving into a vast, dizzying blur of snow and star-studded sky. My carriage mates – a convivial ensemble of the fur-clad and feather-boasting – were buzzing with anticipation. Diamond would’ve eaten her leash to see this. Dogs in hats and cats, undignified in scarves, all chattering about the wonders waiting at the pole.

“Aha,” grunted a grizzled bulldog as he settled opposite me, a cigar planted like a flagpole between his jowls. He had the swagger of a canine that had sniffed every inch of the Bullmastiff Boardwalk and had tales tattooed in his wrinkles. “First trip to the frosts, kid?”

I nodded, glancing down at the Rubber Carrot poking out of my travel bag, its orange hue a jarring contrast to the sea of white outside.

“Ah, you got that look.” He chomped around his cigar. “The look of a dog who’s got some sense in his noggin. I can tell – no frivolities for you, eh? Straight no chaser?”

Again, I nodded, though I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, my mind snagging on the image of green beans steaming beside a plump, roasted turkey at The Bark Shak. Just the thought warmed the fur on my nape.

Hours whipped past like squirrels that had spotted Queeny, the brindle blur. The Express carved through the night, a sliver of fervent warmth against the cool indifference of nature. Soon, stories unfolded within the train – tales spun and unraveled, friendships forged in the crucible of our shared pursuit of magic amid the ice.

It was an odyssey, all right, with the train as our tireless steed and the icy flicker of the Aurora Borealis guiding our path. Inside, the silence was a conspiracy; outside, the world was a snow globe granted eternal life by the flick of some cosmic child’s wrist.

Come dawn, amidst the collective slumber of exhausted travelers, the Polar Pooch Express pulled into the luminescent embrace of the North Pole. The platform swirled with a thousand scents, and as I stepped out into the embrace of a winter like no other, the early sun sparked diamonds on the snow.

They said Spencerville was legend, yet here I was, wondering if the Pole was its sister city, a kindred spirit where tales of old dogs and impossible trains found common ground. As the day unfolded, there was laughter peppered with barks, dances with tails wagging, and yuletide songs that seemed to echo from every drift and dell.

Meeting the Claus himself – a jocular Saint Bernard with a beard as white as Poodle Pond’s winter coat – I remember thinking that this trip, this ride on the Polar Pooch, was just like wading through the deep forest back home, against the grain of expectation.

So, there you have it. For one brindle Boxer/Lab mix with a taste for the finer veggies in life, the Polar Pooch Express was more than just a ticket to the cold. It was the heart of winter itself, where every snowflake was as unique as the tales we wagging creatures carried, and every cold breath taken was a story in waiting.

And when that reunion day comes, when those we yearn for step through the veil into Spencerville, I’ll tell them of this journey – of the train that thundered through the heart of winter, and the dog it turned into legend.

The End.

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