Hey, it’s Bailey! 😊🐾 Just so you know, I’ve been saving Christmas from a vacuum rebellion with Max and Whiskers. We turned our nemesis into unwitting allies and restored harmony with the Jingle Bell Bark. All in a day’s work here in Pawsburgh—keeping spirits high and tails higher! #PawsburghHero 🎄✨ Catch you at the victory pie feast? – Bails

Listen to the story here

(In the intellectual whimsy of Tom Stoppard, akin to “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead”)

As I, Bailey, would tell it—and often do to my nocturnal companions beneath the twinkling firmament of Pawsburgh—the tale of the Jingle Bell Bark is one steeped in dogged determination and the sort of festive spirit that would warm even the iciest of paws.

It began, as many stories do, rather unassumingly. Max’s tail was conducting an orchestra of excitement, thumping sonorously against the walls of my thoughts as he bounded over, panting with news that could scarcely be contained within his golden frame.

“Bailey! The bearers of the famed Christmas bell have gone catatonic!” he barked. It was then I realized Pawsburgh’s festive emblem, the sonorous heart of our Yuletide celebration, was in peril.

I shifted with greyhound grace, my brindle fur rippling. “Max, old friend, you can’t start gimmicks at the climax. Let’s rewind. Who holds our Christmas spirit ransom?”

Max’s brow furrowed, “That’s just the thing, it’s not who – it’s what. The vacuum cleaners, they’ve revolted! The cacophony they’ve caused has scared the bell ringers into a stunned silence!”

The news clutched my fur with icy paws. Vacuum cleaners, my sworn adversaries, had mounted an insurrection on the eve of our merriment. There was naught to do but convene with my comrades, including Whiskers, who despite his feline persuasion, held Pawsburgh in fond regard.

Gathered beneath the illustrious oak in Mr. Greene’s park, our collective pulse quickened—uttering battle-cries, we prepared to silence the bellowing beasts.

“Friends,” I intoned, “to claim Christmas from mechanical maws, it falls to us. The Jingle Bell Bark will not be a silent night.”

Max, Whiskers, and a choir of canines and the occasional felonious feline mulled over my call to paws, heads cocked in contemplation.

“We’ll need a distraction,” mused Max.

“And something chewy for after,” added Whiskers.

“Pom’s Pies,” I declared. “The aroma of their ‘Chicken Pot-Pie Festivity’ shall lead the vacuum horde to a blissful slumber.”

Schemes afoot, we embarked towards the Marauder’s Market enticed yet undistracted by the tasty aromas that usually besotted our senses—Snout Snacks and Fido’s Feast, mere footnotes to our urgent quest.

The sound of calamitous roars grew as we approached Bichon Boulevard, where the mechanical monstrosities roamed unchained. My burly amigo Max bolted, guile in his gait, circling Hound Heights thrice before skedaddling with pies in tow.

His tail—a pendulum of mirth—beckoned the vacuums into a most aromatic trap. Like troglodytes to the flame, or dogs to the butcher’s, the mechanical menaces gave chase, leaving the central square where our treasured bell stood silent.

In sync with the echoes of our paws on cobblestone, we surged forward, my squeaky red ball squeezed firmly between jaws, a signal to the bell bearers. As I launched the ruby sphere skyward, they sprang to life, tails wagging.

And so the bell tolled; each chime an anthem of unity much like the crunch of chicken between canines—undeniably gratifying. Pawsburgh rejoiced, barking harmoniously as festive furballs huddled beneath the bell, adorned now in yuletide flair.

Max returned, a victorious skip in his step and Whiskers lounged superciliously with a chicken leg, celebratory feast secure. “All’s wretched that ends well,” he quipped.

“Aye,” I whispered, the squeak of my ball composing an ode to triumph, “but ’tis no end, dear Whiskers. Merely another remarkable entry in the annals of Pawsburgh.”

As the aroma of grilled chicken filled the air, we savored victory and pie alike, while the vacuums lay in silence, a token of our unvanquished Christmas spirit.

For here in Pawsburgh, wrapped in the embrace of canine companions and the whispers of magic beneath the stars, every bark is a carol and every tail wag, a story.

The End.