Hey there, it’s your faithful guardian JimBo. Just thwarted a duplicitous duo from disrupting our Yuletide tranquillity here in Pawsburgh. Employed squeaky duck tactics, culinary lures, and some good ol’ fashioned cunning to keep the spirit of cheer and bark alive. ‘Twas a furry tale of tail-waggin’ heroics! Rest easy, the town’s in good paws. 🐾

– Double J 🌟

Listen to the story here

The names JimBo Jameson Hovawart, but in this neck of the woods, they call me Double J. As the sun dipped behind Whippet Way, casting elongated shadows across Garnet Greyhound Grove, something in the air smelled different, like trouble wrapped in a bacon strip. Sure, I was just another tail-wagger in Pawsburgh, but with Miss Maple away, entrusting me to keep an eye on the joint, I was more than ready to step up to the proverbial plate—though I’d prefer it filled with lamb.

Pawsburgh was the stuff of legends, where every dog had its day, and nights? Well, let’s just say we live ’em like they’re our last. But tonight was quiet, eerily so, as I paced before the cozy hearth of The Groom Room, doubling as our impromptu headquarters and festive kennel for the holidays.

The streets were frost kissed and twinkling with Yuletide cheer—a picture-perfect scene right out of one of those old-timey cards humans like to send. But I should’ve known, peace in Pawsburgh is about as lasting as the flavor in a chew stick; you gotta savor it while you can.

That’s when the scent hit me—a mixture of unfamiliar cologne and ill intentions. Through the frosted window, I saw the shadowy figures of two hulking intruders, their presence setting my fur on edge. Sapphire eyes narrowed, I assessed the situation. The name of the game? Deter, delay, defend—I’d seen the classic “Home Alone”, and boy, did I yearn for some paint cans.

But that wasn’t JimBo’s style; I was a Hovawart, after all, as tenacious as they come, with a mind geared for strategy rather than brute force.

I launched into action, the clattering of my nails on the wooden floor akin to the ticking of a clock, counting down the moments to mayhem. First step, unleash a barrage of squeaky ducks, their chorus of teasing squawks echoing through the night as the intruders stumbled through the threshold. One, two, three—down they went, a cacophony of barks and surprised yelps as my rubber ducky brigade did their duty.

“Who the heck leaves a flock of squeaky toys on the floor?” one of the intruders grumbled, his sense of stealth as useless as a cat-flap in an elephant house.

“Shut it, and keep moving,” hissed the other.

Ducking around the corner, I grinned, chest puffing with pride. On to the next phase—diversion dining at Dog’s Delicacies next door. A whiff of the porridge I’d left strategically on the stove should do the trick. The siren call of meaty aromas wafted into the night as I heard their stomachs betray them with longing gurgles.

“Is that… lamb?” one drooled, the allure of rosemary too much for even these boneheaded bandits.

As they made for the kitchen, I raced ahead to Hound’s Hotdogs, flipping signs and dimming lights with practiced paws. If my friends could see me now, Serena with her speed, Rufus with his might, they’d howl with pride at old JimBo’s clever ruse. Little Pixie would no doubt be jumping with glee, for every light turned off was a step closer to victory.

The duo burst into the restaurant, mumbling about free holiday feasts, only to find themselves in the pitch dark. The soft glow of a strategically placed candle highlighted a single note:

“Scoundrels will find no quarter here, for Pawsburgh is a place of cheer. Ye be warned by the paw-print seal, mess with our kennel, and the whole town’ll feel.”

Underneath, the unmistakable mark of a shooting star—my calling card.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins, a holiday hymn to bravery and wits as I set off the final trap—a cascade of harmless, yet alarmingly loud, pots and pans that sent the intruders running for the hills, tails between their legs. They didn’t stand a chance against Pawsburgh’s guardian.

And so, the peace of Garnet Greyhound Grove was maintained, the kennel saved, and the story of JimBo Jameson Hovawart would be told with barks and awed howls. As I settled back by the hearth, a twinkle in my star-shaped patch, I knew my holiday tale would bring warmth to Miss Maple upon her return.

The message of Pawsburgh was clear, in every jubilant yip and whisper of fur against pine: Here, every dog had his day, but tonight, this dog had the night. And oh, how the moon shone bright over JimBo’s watch.

Episodic as the silent snowfall, our tales spun—the tapestry of valor and warmth—to live eternally in every shared adventure and whispered legend of Pawsburgh’s valorous nights.

The End.