Hey Mom,

Just led a lost German Shepherd to his destination on Christmas Eve in true Spencerville spirit! Turns out, I’m a pretty adept snow shepherd as well as the queen of Kibble Heists. Spreading that holiday magic, one paw at a time. 😊 Catch you at sunrise!

Love,
Daisy Mae Marie Antoinette

Listen to the story here

Here’s the thing about Christmas in Spencerville—it doesn’t solely belong to the snowy whiskers of Saint Bernard Clauses or the jingle-bell adorned collars of Yuletide Yorkies. No, Christmas here dons its most brilliant array of colors and it’s not all about presents and tinsel. It’s about heart, and hound, and yes, even guidance on snowy nights where each flake feels like a lost soul seeking its porch light.

You may think that a Boxer, all brawn and bravery, wouldn’t fit the slipper of a Christmas shepherd, guiding lost travelers through tempests. But this is Spencerville, my dears, where the usual takes a paw and tumbles in the snow.

So it was on this particular Christmas Eve, with my brindle coat practically shining under the festooned lampposts and white paws etching cold poetry on the fluffy snow beneath. A certain respiratory robustness being a trademark of my breed, each puff of my breath etched tiny ephemeral icicles in the air. It was, in every possible way, magical.

I was trotting down Husky Hill, having had my fill of culinary delights at Doggy Donuts—a dash of eggnog with a hint of beef gravy in the batter this season. I could taste their inventiveness with every lick of my jowls. But as I glided down the slope, something caught my sharp eyes—a shadow, or rather, a dark form etched in the white, stumbling, bewildered.

A curious sight, indeed, on such a night—a weary traveler, an old fellow, I’d wager by the lurch of his gait. A German Shepherd, luggage-laden, with a heart as big as Labradoodle Lake but clearly more lost than a cat at a canine symposium.

“Friend,” I called out, “you look like you’ve been on the wrong end of a game of blind man’s bluff.”

He paused, head tilted, and regarded me with those eyes, the color of hearthstone and just as warm despite the iciness in his coat.

“I am,” he replied, with the faintest trace of German accent, as if his ancestors romped in the Black Forest itself, “attempting to find Silver Siberian Summit. I’m told there’s a family there that’s out of treats, and what’s Christmas without a bone to bury, right?”

I chuckled, the sound bubbling up from within like a well-shaken soda pop. “Well, you’ve got the ‘silver’ bit right; it’s everywhere tonight. You’ll need a capable guide. I know every lamppost and fire hydrant like the back of my paw. Allow me.”

Strider would be worried, my brother by choice not blood, but if there’s one thing he should know, it is that a Boxer can box her way out of any predicament. And guiding a Shepherd? Piece of Pawsome Pancake if you ask me.

The night wore an icy cape that could chill a chili cook-off, but I led on, taking us through twists and turns, the Shepherd’s doubt slowly giving way to hope as we talked of things only night-travelers can recall. At times, we’d pause to shake the snow from our coats, or I’d tell him of my legendary kibble heists which always carved a grin on that old snowy face of his.

Finally, the warm lights of Silver Siberian Summit gleamed ahead. Our journey was ending, but the connection of Christmas, of selfless guidance, had woven a new yarn in the tapestry of Spencerville.

“We’re here,” I said, puffing out a cloud of accomplishment. “Where every traveler finds his treat.”

He wagged his tail, finally at ease. “Thank you, Daisy. You’re a fine Boxer and an even finer shepherd tonight.”

I waved a paw, dismissing the gratitude. “It’s all in a night’s work—and what a night it’s been! Go on, give them a Christmas to remember.”

I watched him disappear into the embrace of the joyful household before turning to find my own way home. Strider, and a warm bed, awaited. But something stirred in my heart, warming me more than any hearth ever could.

I had been a shepherd on Christmas, guiding another, and isn’t that what the season’s all about? Giving a bit of yourself to light the way for others.

My heart beat steady as I made my way back, the star-strewn sky and I keeping secrets of the night. Of lost Shepherds and Boxer guides. Of cold snow and warm hearts.

This was Christmas in Spencerville. And I, Daisy, loyal and vibrant and ever mischievous, had added my own tale to its legendary trove.

The End.