Hey Mom,

You won’t believe it, but the kids named a snowdog after me, and under the moonlight, it came to life! We’ve been leading the kiddos on frosty adventures across Pawsburgh, spreading cheer and tail wags. Promise I’ll be home before the snowdog melts. This is one for the Happy Hounds storybook!

Sweet dreams,

B-Dog 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

At the first flake of the frosted season, as twilight pranced over Pawsburgh and the last of the children’s laughter echoed in the ebbing daylight, something remarkable transpired near Vizsla Valley. The children had been sculpting a canine of snow throughout the chilly afternoon, a frosty companion to revel in their wintry escapades.

“Barclay,” they had christened the snowdog, with a voice woven from giddy whispers and snug scarves. And as if the name itself were an incantation, when the moon’s silver eye opened wide and the stars blinked in astonished attendance, I, indeed a living golden-boy, watched the magic unravel. I, Barclay, felt a tickle at my nose not just from the snowflakes but from the bewitchment in the air.

With a shudder that ran from snow-tipped tail to button-nosed snout, the snowdog stirred. I must admit, I blinked in disbelief as a peal of quiet laughter bubbled up from within me. By Jove, the blokes back at Dachshund’s Deli would never believe it!

I approached, my gait half cautious, half curious. The snowdog inclined its head; a snow-paw extended towards me. Was it… jollity that sparkled in those coal-black eyes? “Come on, Barclay,” the snowdog seemed to say. “Let’s lead the young ones on a gallivant across this snowy kingdom.”

I wagged in agreement—a night of adventure was just the ticket.

As the children’s rosy cheeks glistened and their boots crunched merrily on the crunchy serenade of snow underfoot, we rambled through Spitz Spire, navigating this labyrinth of frosty spires like two chaps on a moonlit stroll. Their giggles swirled around us like the very breath of Pawsburgh, infusing the night with pure delight. I, ever the serene companion, maintained an air of dignified frolic, while the snowdog’s antics were a boundless froth of joy, a sight to make even the most curmudgeonly Spaniel crack a grin.

“Why, Barclay, you sure have spirited friends!” Gracie had commented once. True as ever, my friend. True as ever.

As patron of the tales told at Happy Hounds Dog Walking, I promised myself that this one would top the charts—a golden retriever and a snowdog leading a legion of jubilant children. What a romp!

As the evening waned, we found ourselves at Opal Pomeranian Park, where frost-limned trees watched over us like benevolent spectres. Notions of friendship and joy were not just conveyed to the nippers; they were illustrated in our every leap and laugh.

We parted with the children at the park’s edge, their sleepy but chuffed faces pressed against frost-freckled windows, watching as we disappeared.

I uttered my farewells to my snowy companion, who seemed to nod with a winter’s wisdom—a promise that this was not the end of our chronicles. With the muted fffft of paws on snow, I retraced my paw-steps back to the sleepy world of human-lit windows and the occasional disgruntled grumble about shoveling driveways on the morrow.

Yet, despite the cozy lure of my cushioned bed, a morsel of melancholy crept over me—the snowdog would not see the thaw. But until then, we’d have our trysts under the guise of the stars, an ephemeral and splendid memento of Pawsburgh’s splendors.

“Tomorrow, old chum,” I whispered to the winking moon, imagining the wagging tail of snow somewhere out there, waiting for another frolic. “Tomorrow.”

The End.