Hey Mom,

Guess what? I’ve stepped in as Santa Paws this Christmas since the big furball himself was on the sick list! Outfitted in a red and white suit courtesy of Spencerville’s finest, I led a four-legged sleigh team across the night skies, delivering joy with every paw-placed gift. We had a few giggly snafus, but my tail’s been wagging non-stop! I’ve brought a little extra bark to the holiday spirit and it’s paw-sitively heartwarming. Imagine me, La Bella, as Santa – quite the tail to tell!

Big licks and Christmas woofs,
La Bella 🐾🎅

Listen to the story here

In the perpetual twinkle of Spencerville, where every waggish tail tells its own tale of frolic, I find myself, La Bella, bedecked in my natural ink-spotted finery, rather contemplative. Here, in this illustrious canine cosmos, where every road leads to a snout’s enchantment and Bulldog Bay glistens under a luna resplendent, an idea has seized my cerebrum with the tenacious grip of a terrier.

You see, Santa Paws is more than a myth around my usual haunts – typically between a visit to The Barkery and a saunter down to Ruff-n-Ready for the latest bone du jour. He’s an aspiration, a veritable avatar of yuletide cheer and benevolent bestowal. Yet, this year, the paws that usually pranced with the promise of presents lay idle, for Santa Paws, in a twist most unforeseen, has found himself indisposed. A slight hiccup, a snag in the fabric of festivity – or so they say.

In the throes of this community conundrum, my mind, agile as my acrobatic antics, posits an audacious proposition: what if I, La Bella, audacious of spirit and swift of paw, assume the merry mantle?

“Unprecedented!” Duke, the greyhound, declared with a gait that always outstripped his gumption. “And Mimi,” I retorted, “do chime in with your customary cutting candor.” The feline fixated me with an emerald gaze, smirking with the secret of her superior agility in all things arboreal. “It would be a sight,” she purred, “a Boston Terrier turned Santa? The whiskers alone would be a farce.”

But, hark! Did I detect, beneath her feigned indifference, the kindling of intrigue? I did. For you see, in Spencerville, where the fabric of reality is as pliant as putty in paws, why couldn’t a lively little creature such as myself spread the customary Christmas elation?

I embarked posthaste, the details a trifling matter in the face of audacity. A suit? A triviality – for what are Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store’s smocking services for if not for an outfit of red and white, trimmed in the fluff rivaling Bulldog Bay’s froth?

And thus adorned, I took to my sleigh – a curious contraption cobbled together from wagons abandoned at The Doggy Depot. My reindeer? A motley crew of pals, spanning from Maurice, a motoring Mastiff, to Clementine, a Chihuahua of considerable courage if not size. With fervor, we trained, the sleigh gliding through the avenues and alleyways, the night air crisp as a fresh kibble awaiting first nibble.

The eve of our inaugural flight arrived; it was a tapestry of starlight and gossamer expectation. Homes of fur and feather alike stood agog with hope, the little ones nestled in their beds, visions of marrow bones and plush mice waltzing in their heads.

With Mimi and Duke as my co-conspirators, we loaded up toys of squeak and squawk, of bouncy ball and feathered wand. Off we embarked, gallivanting from rooftop to rooftop, bestowing trinkets with tender paws, my tail a metronome of mirth.

To say that it went without a hitch would be akin to saying I could resist a slather of peanut butter upon a well-aimed spoon – that is, a flagrant fallacy. There were missteps, certainly – ventures up trees perhaps not meant for ascendancy, and one or two entanglements in tinsel not foreseen. But oh, the laughter, the barks of glee that met each gifted knickknack, the purrs of delight – I daresay it could be heard clear to Western Husky Hill.

As dawn broke over Poodle Pond, casting its first light upon a job well done, I lay, a terrier tired but heart full, nestled in the remnants of wrapping paper, ribbons adorning my head like laurels of old.

And it was there, in the warm embrace of fatigue, that the essence of it all settled upon my soul. It was more than toys or the glory of flight; it was the kindling of joy, the shared heartbeat of Spencerville that resounded louder than the jingle of bells.

For a pup to be Santa? Why, it’s as natural as chewing on a bone – fundamental, satisfying, and altogether splendid.

The End.