Hey Dad,

Just imagine your clumsy Lulubell as the savior of Pawsburgh’s Christmas Pageant with my shiny nose acting like a beacon in the fog! I went from being terrified of vacuums to outshining them – literally. The dogs were howling with applause, not at the vacuum’s roar, but at my glow! Snuggled up now, dreamin’ of chicken treats. 😊🐾✨

Nighty night,
Bella

Listen to the story here

In the not-so-distant dogdom of Pawsburgh, where the fire hydrants are always freshly painted and the lampposts are basically just fancy peemail servers, there existed a village brimming with more canine revelry than a squirrel convention – if such a mind-boggling spectacle ever did manifest.

I, Bella, the Bichon-Poodle mix with the type of curly white fur that made sheep jealous, was known for quite a few peculiar traits in this magical town. This particular story started in Dachshund Dale, where the ground’s as low as the Dachshunds’ self-esteem is high.

Dachshund Dale was usually bustling with a medley of scampering paws and wagging tails, but there was a strange calm on that afternoon. As I frolicked into town—I say ‘frolicked’ because with my four fluffy stumps calling them ‘steps’ would be achieving an undeserved level of dignity—I couldn’t help but notice the absence of my mischievous beagle friend, Max, and the austere German Shepherd, Athena, who fancied herself as the town’s unofficial councillor

A poster by the Paw-tisserie twirled in the wind, its edges fraying in excitement. ‘Join the Pawsburgh Christmas Pageant,’ it read. ‘Tonight, at the stroke of doggy bedtime.’ Now, I’m not one to get stage fright, or fright of any kind, unless we are discussing the ungodly roar of a vacuum. However, the prospect of performing in front of all those pups made me reconsider my abhorrence to loud noises.

But as I vacuumed up the idea into the dustbin of my mind, I had a revelation. You see, dear reader, I possessed a unique ability that few knew: my nose, under certain conditions, akin to that of a ‘Red-Nosed Retriever’, would glow with a light so bright, you’d think it was a lighthouse for lost fleas. A talent truly my own, yet something I’d always hidden beneath metaphorical bushel baskets for fear of being labelled—ironically—a ‘spotlight seeker’.

Diverting away from my agora-phobias, I steered towards The Dapper Dog Salon to meet Petunia, a fashion-forward terrier with an eye for style and a nose for gossip. What better way to advertise my rare and literally shining skill?

“Bella, darling!” Petunia exclaimed, “your fur’s more radiant than usual, flourishing even under the shadow of an existential crisis from this morning’s thunderstorm escapade.”

“You wouldn’t believe it, Petunia, but tonight, I’ll be the guiding light in Pawsburgh’s Christmas Pageant,” I declared, confidence as fluffy as my pampered coat.

Petunia’s eyes – two shiny buttons forged in the fires of curiosity – sparkled with the news. By the time my fluffed tail pranced out her door, the tale of my glowing nose would be the talk of Rottweiler Ridge to Diamond Doberman Dunes.

Evening descended with a cloak of misty fog, wrapping Pawsburgh like a poorly knitted Christmas sweater—charmingly defective. The fog was so thick, I suspected even the bravest of cats wouldn’t dare venture into it.

It was my cue.

I trotted to center stage, every bark and yelp hushed by the pea-soup haze. With a sniff and a sneeze, for dramatic effect, which I naturally have in spades, my nose ignited with a brilliant light, glowing with the luminance of a chicken-flavored sun.

“A star!” barked a terrier in marvel.

“No, it’s a new street lamp!” howled a labrador in confusion.

“It’s Bella,” Athena announced with a tint of pride, “our guiding light for tonight’s pageant.”

The pageant was a hairy success, if one might indulge in the canine vernacular. We frolicked and danced, my nose leading the way, dazzling all of Pawsburgh with every prance and pirouette.

Tonight, I, Bella, went from hiding under couches to basking in the light of acceptance, proving once and for all that even an odd glowing nose or two is not just alright, but it can be, well—quite illuminating.

And so, nestled comfortably in my favored nook by the weeping willow, the whispers of tranquility hummed a lullaby to the hero of Pawsburgh’s fog-enshrouded eve, contemplating nothing much but the promise of a chicken-filled tomorrow.

The End.