Hey Mom,

Just turned Sherlock Bones and helped save Christmas in Pawsburgh by convincing Rudolph the Retriever to light up our foggy parade with his shiny snout. Call me a mastermind with a side of mischief, but I guess I’m officially the town’s brightest whisperer. The tail’s wagging, the town’s cheering, and this pup’s heart is full. 🎄🐾

Licks and wags,
Remy

Listen to the story here

Here I am again, Remy, with tales that wag more than my own tail. I trotted, majestic and brown, into Pawsburgh under the veil of a star-lit sky, which isn’t much unlike escaping from Alcatraz, if Alcatraz had doorknobs and your prison guards doled out belly rubs. My arrival was, as always, greeted by the twinkling lights of Akita Alley, but I digress. This isn’t about my nightly escapes; it’s about a Christmas caper that’s more fabulous than the bell on a Salvation Army Santa.

It all started with a party invitation to Barker’s Bakery; a shindig promising to rival the opening night of a Broadway show, if the cast was all dogs which, let’s be honest, would be spectacular. It was to be held in Topaz Terrier Town—the glitzy part of the Pawsburgh woods where the streets glisten with dew and the terriers all talk like they’ve just stepped out of a salon, with accents and hairdos to match.

As the evening progressed with joyous barking and delight under the festive lights, a deep fog rolled in from Weimaraner Woods, dimming the spirits like a wet blanket on a beach picnic. Our pooch procession could hardly see the dewy dazzle of Topaz Terrier Town anymore. “A Christmas without the parade is like a stick without the fetch,” moaned the beagle from next door, drama dripping from every syllable.

Tail between his legs, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Retriever sat sulking in the corner—the youngster whose snout lit up brighter than a flea collar on a pitch-black night. Initially, the object of peculiar interest, Rudolph came to be the town’s odd sock, something you’d rather shove at the back of the drawer.

But what’s a crisis without a hero? It struck me like a frisbee to the face, “Rudolph, your schnoz! It’s practically a lighthouse!” With a voice ripe with pep, I addressed the crowd. “Let’s follow the Retriever with the rosy rhinarium!”

So there we were, parading through the fog behind young Rudolph, moving smoother than a vacuum on a shedding spree. “This is just like that one foggy Christmas Eve,” I quipped, “except no one’s wearing antlers, and there’s a distinct lack of reindeer labor disputes.”

Restaurant by restaurant we passed—Pup’s Poutine, where they serve the cheese curds so squeaky, you’d think they were alive, and Puppy Plate, where the bowls are always warm. The fog lifted just as suddenly as it had descended, revealing The Furry Friends Art Gallery aglow with fairy lights. A backdrop of oohs and aahs serenaded us; even the cats from The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium watched, tongues failing to meet their usual quotas of disdain.

Rudolph led us splendidly, his nose bright and spirits soaring like a hound in pursuit of a mailman. When we found ourselves back at Barker’s Bakery, the applause for Rudolph was deafening, filled with yips and yaps of approval. From that day forward, we agreed: No one does Christmas quite like Pawsburgh, and no one does foggy guidance like Rudolph.

In my bowl of a heart, I felt a warmth that not even a top-grade kibble could evoke. Pride. For I, a mere mixed breed with eclectic tastes, had urged him to shine. Tonight, no stick would weave through my paws, no shadows would be chased. Tonight, I had chosen to chase cheer instead.

As I trotted home, stick by my side, the first streaks of dawn cracked. I’d be back to my human before she’d even peeled her dreams from her eyes, unaware that Remy—the delightfully brown-coated, black-muzzled companion—was actually the toast of Pawsburgh, and a strategic Christmas adviser to boot.

The End.

Share This Story: