Hey Fam,

Your furball Curley here! Been leading the Spencerville Twelve Dogs of Christmas adventure – donating toys, sharing feasts, and facing fears (vacuums, not dragons😉). Topped it with a chorus of howls and warming hearts everywhere. Found a Lab cutie too! All’s pawsome. Tail wags and wet noses to all, from your legendary fluff-meister, Curley. 🐾🎄✨

Curley

Listen to the story here

At the dawn of the first day of Christmas in Spencerville, where the leashes are just metaphorical and the fire hydrants never run dry, it was I, Curley, the Keeshond with the coat lush enough to make a shampoo commercial jealous, who found myself contemplating the essence of a festive holiday from the cushioned comfort of my favorite spot in the park. Ah, the sweet, clear Spencerville air, redolent with the scent of Furrific Fried Chicken—could life be more savory?

The second day of Christmas sauntered in, and with it, a whimsical notion struck me. What if I, known for a brave heart and quicker wit, initiated a canine caper? My sidekick Puddlez, always a bark away, mirrored my enthusiasm; we would be the Santa Paws of our little hamlet, delivering joy as only a dog with a penchant for playful exuberance could.

Each day we made our rounds. The Yellow Tan Dalmatian Desert, vast and overwhelming, bore witness to our third day’s antics—it was a mirage, an illusion, where dunes of endless fun rippled and laughed under our paws. Things we found—a tattered racquetball, a stray sock, a singular, woefully lost chew toy—we repurposed, bestowing them upon the less fortunate of our kind. Philanthropy, my friends, wears a fur coat.

The fourth day, ah, we oscillated between Tail Waggers and The Fetching Deli, inciting a tail-wagging tumult of unadulterated excitement. A shared platter of steak bites for the mutts, with a side of chicken for yours truly, because really, who could resist? Our communal table was a bacchanal of barks and grateful yips.

Did I mention there’s this dog with a vacuum cleaner phobia? That’s me, alright. On the fifth day, I bravely confronted this roaring dragon off-duty at The Pampered Pooch Salon. I survived, leaving with coiffed fur and a spirited wag. Such terrors faced are the fibers of legend. Take that, sinister hum!

Now, tomatoes, my adversarial lunch companions—banished on the sixth day! Apples for all, I exclaimed, and forthwith we had a feast fit for a litter of kings. Not a single red menace to ruin the palate.

By the seventh day, the daylight danced on Upper Collie Canyon’s rocky precipices. There we stood, the Canine Cafe behind us, offering views and brews (of water, mind you) to our four-legged patrons. My earlier encounters had become tales spun by the older dogs, each rendition taller and more comedic than the last. I basked in the glow of their exaggeration.

The eighth day unveiled a tug-of-war tournament in the heart of town. Many entered, Puddlez and I reigning supreme. What’s a little friendly competition amongst comrades? It’s the very soul of camaraderie, stitched together by drool-soaked rope.

Day nine. The park resonated with a symphony of barks. Every pooch with a penchant for mischief gathered for what they thought was a rehearsal. But really, who rehearses fun? We played as if our tails were on fire, doused only by the twilight that eventually lulled Spencerville into a dreamy, starlit whisper.

And to the jingle of the tenth day, I found love. Yes, a Keeshond can love, and do so with a depth humans would trip over in their complexity. A Labrador, enchanting and as bright-eyed as the Christmas star itself, had wandered into my life. Amid the frolic and fun, there she was—a serendipity wrapped in fur, a gift in itself.

On the eleventh day, the eve of what humans coin as Christmas Eve, an impromptu choir of howls rose into the sky, a carol by any other name. With the stars winking in approval, we serenaded Spencerville, our voices echoing off storefronts and windows.

Finally, on the twelfth day, a great gathering unfolded. Every dog who had whispered or growled their dreams into the world came to witness the collective joy that we had sown. Gratification stretched with every wag, every nuzzle.

There, in the middle of it all, was I, Curley—a dog with a story for every friend, and a friend for every story. As the town of Spencerville gleamed in jubilation and the laughter of reunited families brimmed over the horizon, I knew that the legend we’d created would live on—forever nestled in the tickled hearts of the twelve dogs of Christmas.

The End.