Hey Mom,

Just wanted to let you know that I absolutely *starred* in Pawsburgh’s ‘The Twelve Dogs of Christmas’ play – I was the leading lady! 🌟 I pranced, I narrated, and even shed a tear at the finale. Every night was a new surprise, from scrumptious cookies to frosty parfaits and heartfelt toy gifts. 🍪🎁 Felt like a fur-coated celeb! I think I’ve found my calling beyond being your couch’s cushion queen. 😄 Now, back to our scheduled snuggles until next Christmas!

Sweet dreams and tail wags,
Winnie the Moo 🐾💖✨

Listen to the story here

Every good story in Pawsburgh begins at the stroke of midnight, when the leash of reality loosens, and the freedom to frolic in festive frivolity beckons us, pooches of every spot, stripe, and pedigree. Thus, begins my tale, the Yuletide yarn of Winnie—that’s me, of course.

It was the first day of the much-anticipated Twelve Dogs of Christmas, and as I made my nightly escape to Pawsburgh, the anticipation tickled my whiskers. For us canines, Christmas isn’t merely a day; it’s a carousel of cavorting comrades singing with joy and a chance for this spotty English-French Bulldog to swashbuckle through snowflakes.

You see, those who know me would tell you I’m more than the sentinel of sidewalk etiquette or the guardian of the corner couch cushion. I’m the narrator of my own escapades – and with one perpetually perky ear, I can hear the whispers of mistletoe mischief.

Cocker Courtyard, a glittering spectacle of lights and decorations, awaited my grand entrance. The garlands glistened like collars bedecked with precious jewels, and I—well, I pranced into the heart of it, to the beat of my own jingling tags.

Have I mentioned that every day brings a marvelous surprise? Ah, but who could have predicted that upon my arrival, my chums had prepared a play! And not just any play, but ‘The Twelve Dogs of Christmas,’ with yours truly as the leading lady. They entrusted me with unraveling the daily gifts amid tail wagging and ear flopping drama.

The ambiance of the Pyrenean Peak’s snowy cap had transformed into the backdrop of our opening scene—the fetching of the festive fir tree. Amidst the frothy fun, Fido, playing the Fir Fetcher, tripped over his twined tinsels, sending giggles rippling through our audience at Rottweiler Ridge.

“Ah, if to err is canine, to forgive is divine!” I exclaimed under my breath, with the wit bequeathed to me by a playwright pooch. The applause encircled us, paws pad-tapping the flurry-covered floor.

And what would a Yuletide performance be without sustenance? Dashing through the dog door of Wagging Whisk, I devoured the Christmas canine cookie—my delectable day one surprise. My taste buds pirouetted with joy, each crumb a sonnet of savory satisfaction, a crunching chorus to the melody of my burgeoning excitement.

Throughout the days, the stage was my second home, and Pup’s Parfait delighted us actors with a never-ending flow of frozen treats—a standing ovation for our palates! Even Fido, still tangled in tinsel, leaped a little lighter with parfait pleasure on his tongue.

The Pooch Playhouse, our makeshift dressing room, brimmed with actors donning ribbons as if they were regal sashes, and The Woofy Bakery baked bones wearing coats of icing thicker than my own winter fur. And so, each day whisked by, a waltz of wonders with camouflaging snowflakes against my dappled coat.

The time I spent in the haven of The Wagging Tail Bookstore was speckled with stories of past Christmases and heroic hounds, woven together by the paws of Pawsburgh poets. My eager ears—though one stubbornly floppy—absorbed it all.

But of all the days of Christmas, it was the finale that paw-printed my heart. The canopy of stars above Cocker Courtyard blazed brighter than the baubles on our tree as we gathered to dole out the final gifts—a collection of our greatest toys, each one filled with the love and care only a devoted dog could offer.

And as I took the stage for our curtain call, a gale of pride filled my chest. As I gazed out over my friends, my pack, my ensemble, I knew that not a playwright, not even the fabled Tom Stoppard himself, could’ve penned a better Christmas script. For in Pawsburgh, every wagging tail tells a story, and this Christmas tale—you’ve guessed it—is all about love.

As the final bows were taken, and the echo of applause faded into the winter whisper, I trotted back to my humans, my heart still dancing to the twelve beats of Christmas. Back to dreaming beneath the twinkling tree, I rested, my adventures stitched silently into my snores.

For in the morning, my humans would find a playful pup, fresh from dreams of Pawsburgh wonders, where every Christmas is wrapped in tales, and every tale is sealed with a lick.

The End.