Hey Mom,

Just saved Christmas in Pawsburgh by turning a grumpy hermit hound into a jolly fellow with a squeaky toy – guess I’m a bona fide tail-wagging hero now! Sending tail wags and holiday hugs your way. 🐾

Lukie 🎄✨

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I never fancied myself as a hero of a Yuletide tale, but there I was, Luke, a fur-coated David in a sea of Goliaths, setting course for a tale that’d wiggle the stoniest of tails. Imagine me, a silver and light brown Yorkshire Terrier, not much bigger than Momma’s favorite slipper, bounding heartfirst into an adventure at Pawsburgh during the most twinkly-eyed time of the year: Christmas.

I ventured to Pawsburgh, a sort of Narnia for canines. I’d sneak away when Momma was lost in dreams, or sometimes when she simply turned her back for what humans call “a split second” – a lifetime opportunity for us dogs. On this particular eve, the town shimmered with a festive glow that warmed even the coldest snouts. The air smelt like Woof Waffles slathered in peanut butter – my soft spot, I confess. I wet my chops at the thought of it.

The borough’s canine citizens were all a-buzz; I gathered with my chums, Taz and Paco, by the Saluki Sands. They’re the yin to my yang, Taz with his muscle and the tender touch of a butterfly, and Paco being all beans and bravado. But there was an irksome howl in the air, a Grinch who lived up at Bloodhound Bluffs, a hermit hound named Horace who snubbed snouts at our Christmas cheer.

“Look at this delicate snowflake,” Paco joked, pointing to the shy snowflakes landing on my nose as I dug for a reason behind Horace’s festive rebellion. I hadn’t an inkling of why he’d rather curl in a ball inside than roll in one here with everyone.

“This season could do with one fewer grumbling growl, eh?” Taz observed, stretching his sizable legs. And there it was, the plot of my story: to ever so gently nudge Horace’s heart into the holiday chorus.

The trio of us traipsed, with the stealth only hounds posses, to Pointer Pier, plotting our approach. We could hear Horace from a distance, his growls almost mistakable for the wind’s harsh whisper, if the wind had less holiday spirit and more attitude.

“He probably just needs a good carol and a cuddle like the rest of us,” I mused, eager to feel the rush of wind through my fur but knowing I was bound on a mission. “Or a taste of those Sniffer’s Sandwiches to get him in the spirit. Everyone’s tails wag for those!”

A genius plan took shape – we decided I, with my innocence and pocket-sized charm, would approach Horace; size can deceive, even in dogs. Taz and Paco would wait for my bark. They said nothing, but their tails spoke volumes. Faith. They had it. In me.

The Bluffs loomed, but one paw in front of another, I marched. As Horace’s lair approached, my heart danced the jingles of jingle bells. Confronting the grumpy hermit, I offered him the best of Pawsburgh’s delights. Woo-Wuffled his whiskers, sparked his pale eyes.

“It’s Christmas, Horace,” I woofed. “Even Scrooge had a change of heart.”

With every moment, his heart softened like a chew toy untreated by teeth. He began baring not his fangs, but a smile. And not just a lift of lip, but a genuine, full-moon smile – the kind where you see wisdom in the worn teeth of an elder.

“Freebie,” I joked, tossing Horace my cherished squeaky toy, a miniature peanut butter jar; a parade float compared to my size.

He nuzzled it, and with a gleam in his eye, he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Well, it beats an olive,” he grumbled with an unfamiliar chuckle.

By the last lingering lick of the waffle, Horace was at the beach next to me, the soft sands beneath him, joining our chorus of camaraderie, finally in sync with the holiday tempo.

“A Christmas miracle?” I pondered aloud, or as close as one gets in Pawsburgh. A small Yorkie with a tale tall as the tallest fir, and at the heart of it all, just a scruffy pooch who believed that behind every Grinch was just another pup, craving a squeaky toy and a cuddle.

The End.

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