Hey Mom,
Guess what? Turns out I’m the secret sauce of Pawsburgh! I’ve been a bit of a local legend without even knowing it—inspiring play, teaching patience, and spreading my Violet cheer all over. Who knew? The guardian angel of dogs showed me my unofficial pawprint on the town. Feeling like the fairy godmother of fetch over here. Tail wags and Christmas barks!
Hugs & sniffs,
Violet 🐾✨
P.S. Please hide the vacuum before I get home.

Listen to the story here

Oh, the things I could tell you about my romps in Pawsburgh – that quaint little town that exists somewhere between a wag and a dream. It’s the twilight bark of my life, really. Like this one time, just around the glistening eve of Christmas, when my soul felt as heavy as a chewed-up bone, buried and forgotten. You see, humans had been busier than usual, bustling about with their holiday frolics, and I, Violet, began to wonder about my place amidst all the tinsel and mirth.

There I was, sulking on my quilt in the corner, my thoughts a jumble like kibble spilled from a bag. And then, something peculiar – a glow, an ember of light that seemed as if it had accidentally strayed from the fireplace. But no, it grew into the shape of a dog, a guardian angel with a twinkling collar.

“Violet,” it said with a voice smooth like fresh cream. “It seems you’ve misplaced your wag.”

My tail uttered not even a twitch. “What’s there to wag about? My humans – wrapped up in ribbons and recipes, and my canine comrades off chasing their tales in Pawsburgh without me.”

The angel wagged a metaphoric finger, which was odd because – you know – dogs and fingers. “Come, we’ve got places to see.” And with a flick of her ethereal tail, the spirit took off, with me surprisingly in tow.

First, we floated over Pomeranian Park. Through the eyes of my guardian, I saw little furballs tumbling, each one whispering thanks into the wind for the ropes I’d tug, the balls I’d chase, the games I’d inadvertently invented. I realized I was more than Violet; I was the pawprint on their playful hearts.

We whisked next to Pearl Papillon Promenade, lit by Christmas lights like a runway for Santa Paws’ sleigh. “Look closer,” nudged my guide as I gazed down. There were Willow and Annabelle, paw-painting at The Furry Friends Art Gallery, their canvas filled with strokes that echoed my own style of play. I couldn’t help but snort in amusement. Was I their muse?

Mastiff’s Meals smelled like heaven if heaven was made of kibble. Lily was chewing contemplatively on a bone. “Seems you forgot, dear Violet, that little growl dance you do,” spoke my phantom companion, “It’s what taught Lily the value of patience. She savors her bones now because of you.”

We hovered over my own home next, windows aglow, my humans inside. “Hey, isn’t that…” my spirit trailed off merrily. Fanny Flamingo, that rascal, perched on the mantel, sporting a tiny Santa hat. I’d carried her everywhere, and now there she sat, tokens of joy among holiday cards, each depicting me – Violet’s Vivacious Vignette – in countless moments captured.

I could feel it. I could feel it in my jowls. These folks, these dogs, they didn’t just know me, they needed me. And not for some grand, heroic deeds, but for just… being me. For showing them, by simply embracing the fun, the verve of existence, they could do the same.

With a burst of euphoria, I found myself back on my quilt, the guardian’s light dissipating into the familiar sounds of my family’s laughter, the smell of roasting turkey mingling with pine.

I let out a bark – not of melancholy, but celebration. Tail thrumming, I realized I wasn’t just the bulldog who feared vacuums and waged war against ear cleanings – I was Violet, the essence of Pawsburgh cheer, the unseen tug on the ever-spinning yarn of life.

So, I jumped into the heart of Christmas morning with the spirit I’d been shown – overjoyed, full, and so very loved. Because, after all, it’s a wonderful bark.

The End.