Hey Jamie 🌟,

Just wrapped up the most whimsical Christmas show in Pawsburgh–I, Mya, the doodle playwright, spun a tale with the crew that had tails wagging and hearts melting. We delivered laughter, drama, and a howl of a performance that echoed our unbreakable bond. The stage glowed, the audience applauded, and something tells me we made more than memories tonight.

Catch you in the frosty fuzz of dreams,
Mya aka Sunset Scribe 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

Ah, the Yuletide season in Pawsburgh, a place where spirits run as high as the snow drifts, where paws crunch the snow, and every bark rings with the jingle of bells. It was that time of year again, when the cobblestones of Cocker Courtyard gleamed with frosty sheen, and the lights from Onyx Otterhound Oasis danced upon icicles like dreams yearning to be remembered.

This is Mya speaking, by the way, the strawberry Golden doodle with the sunset coat. Let me tell you about the Christmas show we put on in Pawsburgh—a display of talent and heart that could warm even the chilliest of muzzles.

My daytime hours were spent much like they always are, lazing under the somber Earth’s sky on my back, legs twitching as I dreamed of dashing through Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, the destination of our upcoming extravaganza. But as my human, Jamie, turned the key in the lock, signaling another solitary evening, my real life as a Pawsburgh playwright began.

Max, the Beagle, always insisted on historical accuracy—you know the type, forever barking about the ‘good old days.’ And he wasn’t entirely wrong. This year’s theme: White Christmas Whiskers. It was a nostalgic nod, a longing for the camaraderie of times past transformed into a spectacle for the present. We were all alight with excitement, but none more than Luna, the husky who would star as our frosty diva.

In prelude to our opening night, I found myself in the glow of a desktop lamp at the Wagging Tail Bookstore, penning scripts with more twists than a leashed-up pup. My fellow hounds and I bantered back and forth—Sorkinesque snappy dialogues were our meaty bones.

“Whippet Wraps isn’t going to cater the after-show if we don’t pull in the crowds,” barked Briar, the Boxer who took care of the marketing, her tail an energetic metronome.

“And we will!” I reassured her, my eyes gleaming as bright as the Christmas star. “We’ve got heart, we’ve got spirit, and most importantly, we’ve got Luna.”

I presented the idea to Luna in Canine Kabobs, her favorite haunt. There was no refuting the twinkle in her eyes, the wag in her tail—it bespoke volumes of the sentimental journey we were about to embark on.

Rehearsals at the Quartz Qimmiq Quarter were a cavalcade of harmonious barks and waltzing whisks. The Tail Wagger’s Tailor worked tirelessly, their sewing machines purring like contented kittens, fixing us up with the most fetching costumes.

Opening night arrived with a flurry, the air a confection of anticipation and the sweet scent of roast chicken from Pup’s Paella—free from any hint of those dreadful bitter greens. As the lights dimmed and the curtain rose, I saw Jamie in the front row, grinning from ear to human ear, unaware of the magic we dogs wield when left to our own devices.

What unfolded that night was not just a play. It was a reminder of the bonds that form in the absence of our humans, a chance to showcase the depth of our tales. As the final notes of Luna’s howling aria faded into silence, we stood side by side on the stage, tails high, heads up, a chorus of barks mingling with applause.

The snow continued to fall gently on Pawsburgh, a twinkling cosmos under our paws. And as I looked upon the faces in the audience, I realized we were more than friends; we were family united by the spirit of Christmas. The story of White Christmas Whiskers wasn’t just performed, it was lived. And as I nestled into Jamie’s arms later that evening, content with a belly full of festive fodder, the memories of the applause lingered like the ghost of a carol, waiting to be sung again.

The End.

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