Hey Mom, just wanted to let you know I unleashed my inner Santa Paws in Spencerville, decking the halls with barks and joy, and redefined the sledge game with Gus’s skateboard. Left tails wagging, hearts warm, and definitely put my paw print on this Christmas story. Ho-Ho-How about that for holiday cheer? 🐾❤️ – Baby Girl

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Okay, picture this: It’s a frost-glazed morning in Spencerville, the kind of climate that calls for scarves, if I wore one – which I don’t, because hello, fashion disaster on four legs. My name’s Daphne, and today isn’t just a regular day; it’s the day before Christmas Eve.

This year, Santa Paws is me. That’s right, moi, this petite beagle who absolutely aces the art of concealing holiday treats from Raffa and Gus. But spreading joy is sort of my thing, outside of my impulse to annihilate indestructible toys, that is.

The whole thing started when I was trotting by Yappy Yogurt, donning my invisible Santa hat, you know, the one that gives me the peppermint-y scent of authority. Cocoa, this old Bernese mountain dog who’s basically the ho-ho-hoest of us all, was like, “Daphne, darling, you’ve got the Christmas spirit swirled in with your copper eyes. The town needs you. Go, be our Santa Paws!”

I blinked. Like, really? Me? But the next thing I know, Spencerville’s Christmas Extravaganza Committee is dabbing my paws in green ink and sticking me on a heap of promotional flyers. I guess consent isn’t a big thing for dogs in Christmas town politics.

Spreading joy? I can do that in my sleep, curled in my cozy blanket fort, dreaming of carrot sticks. But the actual Santa job? Turns out, it’s more than just wagging your tail with extra zest.

The crash course in Santa-ing was a whirlwind of tinsel and eggnoggy mysteries. I mean, how does one fit through chimneys? We’ve got Retriever River, not chimneys, in Spencerville! And those reindeer games? Let me tell you, reindeer have nothing on a beagle’s zoomies.

Anyway, I start my Santa Paws duties with a list. I’ve got names: Teddy, Frank, Penelope. I’ve got accessories: a sleigh, a sack, a belly that doesn’t jiggle when I laugh. The sleigh, by the way, is Gus’s skateboard. We modified it with tinsel and some misplaced dreams.

The big day is here, and I am ready. Sprinkling joy like parsley on K9 Kebabs, I stealth my way around town. The Snooty Snout Boutique gives me a red, slightly jarring bow for dramatics. Then off I race, spreading festive goodness without the judgmental ‘good list’ of old times.

I nose gifts into the willing paws of pet after pampered pet. Whispers echo through the crisp air, “Santa Paws is here,” in tones that usually presage the uncovering of hidden bones.

At Western Labradoodle Lake, I spy Teddy looking a little gloomier than a pup should on Christmas. A bulb on his antler headband’s gone kaput. Tail-drop moment right there. I dart over and replace it with one of my backup sparkly bulbs. His world lights up, and well, so does my heart because, let’s face it, I’m a sappy Santa underneath this gleaming coat.

Evening crawls in, and I’m back at Paws On The Grill, sipping my victory puppuccino. I glance at the happy, frolicking faces around me. This may just be my finest hour, I muse, slurping the froth like the classy canine I am.

Satisfied, exhausted, I snuggle under my blankets back home, dreaming of green bean delights and my next adventure, far away from responsibility and uncomfortably close to play.

I, Daphne, am not your regular Santa Paws. No sir. I’m the sort who leaves you with warmth twinkling in your eyes long after the fairy lights are gone. It’s a beagle thing. You might not get it, but that’s okay. You can just watch and be dazzled.

So that’s my festive tale, woven with as much love as the chaos of a dog trying to be Kris Kringle. It’s a holly-jolly, bark-the-herald kind of vibe in Spencerville, and I’m living for it, one paw print and mistletoe moment at a time.

The End.

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