Hey Dad,

Guess what? It’s your brave Stella, who just turned sleuth to save Pawsburgh’s Christmas! The big bell was missing, almost silenced our jingles. Tail on the case, I sniffed out clues like a pro, but no cat burglar or beagle baddie in the end—just a mixed-up delivery. Saved the day, returned the bell, and voila, holiday cheer restored for all the tail-waggin’ folks! Now I’m sneaking back home with tales of victory for another day.

Tail wags and jingle barks,
Stella 🐾 🎄

Listen to the story here

Well, I’ll be doggoned if it ain’t me, Stella, waggin’ ’bout another whisker-whippin’ adventure, right under the noses of the sleepin’ humans. Why, on a fine mornin’ like this, with the jingle of bells and the scent of roast chicken dancin’ in the air, I reckon there’s a yarn to spin that’ll warm yer heart quicker than a pup snugglin’ on a cold night.

Now listen here, every year, ’round this sparklin’ season, Pawsburgh done holds a bell festival that rivals any human hootenanny. But this holiday was fixin’ to go mute, ’cause the grand ol’ Christmas bell done vanished quicker than a squirrel at a dog park.

With my trusty paws, and a noggin full of mischief, I set out to wag some justice. Time was as short as a Dachshund’s legs, and if that bell weren’t found, our festival was as doomed as a cat at a dog’s birthday bash. So off I scampered, straight through Dachshund Dale, with the wind tunin’ the fur on my ears like a piano man plays Chopsticks.

First stop, the Paw-tisserie, owned by a snooty Poodle with more curls than a pig’s tail. “Mercy,” I barked. “Seen anything strange, Fifi?”

“Well, if it ain’t lil’ miss Stella,” she barked back, frosty as the white on a Christmas morn. “I saw that thievin’ Beagle from Whippet Way nosin’ ’round the bell.”

Thievin’ Beagle, you say? I tipped my invisible hat, turned tail, and to Whippet Way I went. Waggin’ into the Wagging Whisk, there was that Beagle, chompin’ a bone like it was his job.

“Beauregard,” said I, polite as a pooch in a picture, “you plannin’ on turnin’ that bell into your personal ding-a-ling?”

“Stella,” he chuckled, lazy as a hound in the sun, “I got no more use for a bell than a cat has for a fetchin’ stick.”

Fair enough, Beauregard. Clearly wrong tree, no bone buried there. Teetering on the brink of despair, I wandered on down to Affenpinscher Avenue where the shops glisten like a new collar.

Then, like a scent on the breeze, it hit me. What if the bell wasn’t stolen, but merely misplaced? I darted to the Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, where Mittens the Himalayan ran things smoother than a well-oiled leash.

“Mittens, dear, any odd bells ring through here?”

She looked down her nose, prim as a pup on show day. “Indeed, the bell found its way to my emporium. Accidental delivery, I assure you.”

Well, shiver my timbers and flutter my ears! The bell was found, and with haste, it was returned, not a moment too soon. Pawsburgh jingled and jangled like never before! Dogs from every nook and fire hydrant galloped to the festival. Pageant set, barks tuned, we was ready.

In the nick of time, we rang that bell, grand and clear. It filled the air with cheer like a choir of howlin’ hounds. The Pawprint Pizzeria gave out slices of yuletide yum, and the Pampered Pooch Salon styled fur so fine, you’d think we were royal.

As the evenin’ drew a close, all of Pawsburgh was snug as a pup in a rug, thanks to a community pawing together. We learned, once again, that the holidays ain’t ’bout the biggest bone in the lot, but ’bout sharing a woof and wag with friends.

So, that’s how this tail-waggin’ Spaniel saved the Christmas chimes, with naught but gumption and a good sniffer. And as the festival lights twinkled in my eyes, I knew right well that this was a tale fit for Pawsburgh’s annals.

Now, I must sneak back ‘fore the human wakes; he’d sure get a hoot from my nocturnal capers. But those stories, my friend, they’re for another time, when the moon is high and the town of Pawsburgh beckons once again.

The End.