Yo, Ma, I might look like an Oreo but I’m living a whole holiday truffle here in Pawsburg! Strayed from the cottage, stirred up some charm with a lovely Spaniel, and instigated a pancake heist that even Santa’s reindeer would envy. Found love, laugh, and a dash of syrup-soaked wisdom. Tell Santa Paws I’m all for non-human holidays now. Licks and wags, your dapper doggo – O. 🐾🎄🥞

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The irony of the situation has always struck me as rather delicious, and not unlike the sort of indulgence grilled chicken represents for my comparatively sophisticated palate – I am quite the savant of savory, you see. For once upon a hoary winter’s eve in Pawsburg, where snowflakes waltzed like tiny ballerinas upon a stage of cobblestone, I found myself absent my usual bustle of companionship.

It was the type of holiday season that makes humans croon and chests swell with songs, yet for a snugly 17-pound canine such as myself, the lack of bustling mum feet and the wafting scent of her stuffing could dampen even my spirited tail.

As it stood, I was entrusted to the whims of my own misadventure in our little cottage just a bone’s throw away from Basenji Bay. The humans busied themselves elsewhere, and so I enacted Plan Tail Wag: Slip unseen to Pawsburg for solace and perhaps, culinary consolations.

You may ask, what could a Maltese/Shih Tzu mix with a coat dark as a raven’s wing (save the curious white blotches), one good eye, and an affinity for squeaky red balls do in such a time? Well, that’s where our story wags its tail.

Sulking through The Woofy Bakery, my nostrils flared at the stimulating medley of aromas assaulting the air. I contemplated a mischief of ginger snaps but recollected the culinary confines of my past indispositions to say nothing of the notorious celery that haunts my taste buds like a veggie spectral. “No thank you,” I thought, and off I trotted through the daintily-lit lanes.

I passed Mastiff’s Meals; not even a single trace of chicken essence could lure my heart today. It was, however, when my paw pads kissed the frosty docks of Pointer Pier that a smidgen of serendipity befell me.

There she was, the lady of Cocker Courtyard—a newly arrived Spaniel, her coat shimmering like the rarest of seashells under the moonbathed sky. She was a beauty that made one seriously question the disarray of evolution for granting us but a single heart.

Heavier than my favored red ball was suddenly my courage. But with an impromptu twirl, I made my approach.

“Ho ho ho, and what might your name be?” I inquired, with an eloquence I credited to the evening’s peculiar magic.

“Penny,” she bellowed, clearly not against the tonal charms of a husky. “And who might you be, with your Oliver Twist demeanor and your eye that holds sturdier stories than the ancient Pointer Pier?”

“Oreo, purveyor of whimsy and occasional philosopher,” I replied with a grace bestowed by my mother’s tender raising. The banter, as you would have rightly calculated, escalated to the constructs of kinship—and that, my tail-wagging compatriots, is but the entrée of my tale.

A casual amble advanced to the revelries at Paw-lickin’ Pancakes, where the notoriously rambunctious Milo and the golden raconteur Belle awaited. With a huddle and a jingle, the lot of us devised a trial that Bobby Burns would have scribbled sonnets about—the Great Pancake Pilferage.

We banqueted like the kings of yore, with Penny joining our scuttling ranks. The tales flew thick and fast, each one a mirthful bauble on the holiday tree. I discovered, nestled in each moment like a treasured bone, the warmth of new love and the effervescence of friendships both seasoned and sprouting.

As I settled that night on my bed, with a heart full and the ghost of maple syrup lingering on my whiskers, the snowfall seemed to shimmer with a message clear and true—if one’s holiday is to be spent sans humans, then Pawsburg isn’t merely a place but, indeed, a fortuitous furry fate.

The End.

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