Hey there!

In a nutshell, I’m Ace – your furry friend who just helped an elf named Tinsel rediscover his human family and the true warmth of Christmas right here in the big city. Turns out, a dog’s loyalty and an elf’s hope can rekindle holiday spirit, even amidst the greyest of streets. Also, I’m still not a fan of peanut butter, just FYI. 🐾

Tail wags and festive cheers,
Ace 🐶

Listen to the story here

Right then, I suppose you’re wondering how an upstanding dog like meself ended up in the business of Christmas spirit. It’s not the usual tail-wagging in the park, but it’d be a bone’s lie if I said I didn’t find it to be a rather fetching affair. The name’s Ace, by the by, four legs, a snout for savory chicken, and an absolutely indifferent relationship with peanut butter.

The day was colder than a belly on kitchen tiles, the air whispering wintry secrets as we trundled through the human city, which is a lot like Pawsburgh, only less… well, canine. My elf companion, a sprightly lad with a heart bigger than his earmuffs, goes by the name of Tinsel Toes; an unfortunate alias among elves, mind you, but that’s a Christmas cookie for another jar.

Tinsel had lost the twinkle in his step, same as the city around us. The humans bustled about—like terriers after a squirrel—with nary a jingle bell in sight. Seeing him as droopy as a hound after bath time, I wondered, where was the joy, the laughter, the family warmth that lit up his tales of the North Pole?

It was our mission, me and this vertically challenged chap, to find it. His family, that is. Turned out Tinsel was adopted by humans when he’d been a but a tot, and Christmas wasn’t just a festival, it was a homing signal. As for me, I followed him like I follow the scent of chicken roasting—faithfully and with a bellyful of hope.

So here we are in the big city, him with a list of names, me with loyalty, and both of us with half a plan. “To Garner Street!” he declared with the bravado of a Beagle who’d just found the fox.

Garner Street was awash with grey—grey buildings, grey faces, and a grey that even painted the snow. It’d give Hound Heights back home a run for its money. But we were in search of Garlands, not greys, and Tinsel’s former kin, or so the list said.

Halfway down the alley, between a musty bookshop and a blinking neon sign for “Bob’s Baubles,” was a door with crimson paint peeling away like leaves in the fall. We exchanged a glance—the kind shared between dog and elf when you know you’re about to jump into the deep end of the water bowl.

Knock, knock, knock.

Doors aren’t the most loquacious, but when one swings open, it’s like the first page of a good story. There stood a woman with silver strands weaving through her hair like tinsel through a Christmas tree. Her surprised “Oh!” was better than any symphony at Whippet Wraps.

It was a whirlwind of tears and laughter, the kind Jax and Daisy would’ve kicked up dust for. Tinsel wasn’t just rediscovering his family; he was showing me mine in the broad grins and tight hugs of humans that smelt like home.

We sat by the hearth, the fire as welcoming as a nap under Patterson Park’s old oak, exchanging tales and sharing a feast to rival Fido’s Feast. And would you believe it, even peanut butter made an appearance, not that I bothered with such nonsense.

As the night drew to a close, the city didn’t feel so cold anymore. Garner Street glowed with light and melody, the family carols carrying farther than any scent. Ace—your reliable, chicken-loving bulldog—and Tinsel Toes had found the joy of Christmas once again, and it wasn’t just under the tree.

I reckon it’s the magic of Pawsburgh, or perhaps the spirit of the North Pole working through a bulldog and his elf. Either way, it’s a tale worth telling, don’t you agree?

The End.