- Dog Tales
- December 19, 2023
Santa Claws: A Gus’s Yuletide Vigil in Pawsburg: A Gus PawWord Story
Hey packmates, brace yourselves for this tail-wagger: while Ms. M visited fam, I, Gus the Audacious, saved Christmas from ‘Santa’ burglars at Spartan Spaniel Estates! Ditched my quiet night for a heroic caper, turning a tiny mouse into a mighty dragon that sent ’em dashing. Let’s just say, Pawsburg’s sleigh bells jingled with justice thanks to yours truly. 🐾💪 Can’t wait to swap stories over biscuits! – Ghost Gustavo 👻🦴
Who could have possibly guessed on that frosty Yuletide evening that I, Gus, the gallant guardian of Ms. Marigold’s literary haven, would swerve into a caper the likes of which Pawsburg had never seen? The tale I unfold before you took root on a night aglitter with holiday cheer, while Pawsburg, that enigmatic getaway for dogs, brimmed with hushed whispers of thievery.
Ms. Marigold was off to visit her sister in another state, and I was nestled all snug in the boarding kennel at Spartan Spaniel Estates. A place undoubtedly lavish, but the absence of my customary hearth made me restless. My friends, Daisy and Rex, were off on their misadventures, little suspecting the rumpus that awaited them upon their return.
The moon was high and anticipation riddled the air—today was the night before Christmas and all through the kennel, not a creature was stirring, except for, well… me. Tucked behind the sturdy doors of The Groom Room, which now operated as a seasonal kennel for the traveling humans’ pets, I planned to spend a serene night. But as fate spun her unpredictable yarn, two intruders breached the veil of peace.
These bumbling burglars, I might add, were of the most peculiar sort. Clad in shabby Santa suits with waggling faux beards, they slinked through the quarters, muttering of treasures and treats. I can assure you, had they ransacked the Bark Buffet or Canine’s Cuisine, their folly would’ve justified the cause—but not on my watch!
“Curious,” I said to myself with James Thurber-esque sardonic delight, “guests are arriving unannounced. And bereft of canine grace—and manners.” A low growl underscored my intent as I pattered after them with stealthy resolve.
“Hit the jackpot, eh, Louie?” whispered the taller of the Santa simulacra, oblivious to my nearby presence. They were pilfering stuffed squeaky squirrels! An indignity I could not abide, for these were not just toys; they were heralds of happiness for every pup come Yuletide morning.
Leaning on the element of surprise afforded me by my ghost-like coat, I engineered a clever defense. Creeping into The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium next door, I grasped a toy mouse – the sort equipped with mysterious mechanics, making it dance a fiendish jig upon the clap of hands.
One hearty applause from the shadows… And off went the mouse, skittering in infernal gyrations. The Santa bandits jumped as though scalded by hot cider, dropping their loot with a clanging calamity fit to wake the dead.
“Oh, what cunning,” I thought, “to turn yon mouse into a guardian spright!”
Sending them stumbling and cursing into the ivory-blanketed night, my self-congratulations seemed well earned. A Pyrenees cross may not be a sleuth of Holmes’ fame, but my faculties in tight spots were not to be underestimated.
When daylight at last broke over Pawsburg and the jovial chaos of Christmas glee swirled through the Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, Daisy and Rex returned to my side. I regaled them with my nocturnal escapade as we trotted to the Paw-tisserie for some deserved celebration.
“Ah, friends,” I proclaimed, “it appears the gallant canine must often save the joy of Christmas from the clutches of comedy and mischief. Let this be a story for the ages!” We shared a bark of mirth, for although the incident had passed, the legend of Gus’s Yuletide vigil would echo forever through the whispering pines and beyond the hallowed grounds of Hound Heights.
And so, this Pawsburg defender learned his most vital lesson: even at the season’s height, one must always keep one perky ear alert to the night. And with that, dear comrades, Gus bids you good cheer and better squeaky squirrel toys. To each dog, a good night!
The End.
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