Hey Mom,

Turns out my sheer size doesn’t make me immune to whimsy! I just had the wildest night—think Nutcracker but with more tail-wagging and less ballet. Pawsburgh came to life, and so did I! From toy soldiers to starry skies, it’s been a real fur-raising fairy tale. Even learned that this old dog can be part of some Christmas magic. Don’t worry, no veggies were harmed in this adventure. 😉

Barks and licks,
Sully the Spotted Storyteller

Listen to the story here

In the dappled light of a Pawsburgh morning, I woke—though in truth, this grand, speckled Great Dane named Sully is ever only half-asleep. There’s a buzz, a murmur of excitement about the cobblestones of Chestnut Cocker Courtyard, for the season twinkles and the air is laden with a different sort of magic.

Odee, the Pitbull with a heart as mottled as her coat, trotted up to my side as if she knew where today’s adventure lay. “The Nutcracker,” she said, the word a puff of visible breath in the cool air. “They say it’s more than just a story here in Pawsburgh. Toys turn real, and adventures…they’re as big as you and me.”

And before I could puzzle together her mysteries with my favorite pastime—my mind twirling as much as one of those tricky puzzle toys I so adore—Frankie, the noble Dogo Argentino with splotches to match my own, bounded over, adding, “Tonight’s the night, Sully. Don’t you feel it in your bones?”

“What bones?” I asked, though they both knew I meant the toy ones. Squeaky delights were one thing, but this…this was an air thick with portent.

We made our way down the bustling Whippet Way, past The Woofy Bakery, where scents of roast chicken drew out such drool from my jowls, you’d think the ground itself decided to mirror the sky’s rain. We dallied, too, by The Pampered Pooch Salon, where pooches emerged more coiffed than the grandest Christmas tree.

Only when we skirted Affenpinscher Avenue did the story begin to stitch itself together. There, in the center of the town square, I spied it — a nutcracker toy, the size of a small pup, standing regal, standing quasi-frozen. The world around us built of gingerbread house memories, as if every dog’s finest moments were drawn forth from slumber and baked into a reality far richer than feast.

“See, Sully?” Frankie’s voice rose with the wind, playful as a pup’s first snow. “You’re not too grand and stately to believe in magic, are you?”

Laughter mingled with barks in the piquant evening air, crisp as the first bite of a frost-laden leaf. And as I looked upon that wooden toy, I could indeed feel it—the tremble of transformation, the pulse of possibility.

Then, the clock struck a resonant tone, and all around me, Pawsburgh shimmered. The nutcracker before me, with each chime, began to move—a paw here, a tail flick there—until in a grand flourish befitting the finest ballet, the nutcracker wasn’t just animated; he *was* animate.

“Welcome, Sully,” he barked, a voice I knew as though it had always been there, lost in the deepest part of the ear, where sounds are felt rather than heard. And beneath my massive bulk, toy soldiers and sugar plum fairies danced in allegiance to this Nutcracker Prince.

The night unfolded like the petals of the rarest bloom, each moment a petal plucked from dreams. Pawsburgh swirled around me—a feast, a waltz, a battle against mice that seemed less rodent than metaphor.

And when I later awoke—or dreamt I awoke—under the infinite tapestry of stars, I knew my world was no simple matter of ‘fetch’ and ‘roll over.’ My heart, loyal as the day, my guardian stance, all were part of a Pawsburgh transformed by the season.

And yes, while no broccoli was endured in the making of this tale—of that you can rest assured—I romped under the watchful gaze of the Nutcracker Prince, and we spoke of Christmas and magic and a Great Dane whose spots were flecks of the fantastical, painted by the brush of a night unlike any other.

For as I am Sully, the storyteller, behemoth amongst breeds, thrift store philosopher and flea market king, I tell you this tale. Believe it or not, dear readers, here in Pawsburgh, anything’s paw-sible.

The End.