Hey fam! Just a quick pause from my tail-wagging heroics to let you know I saved Christmas in Spencerville as the stand-in Santa Paws. From sneaking gifts to orchestrating festive mischief, I spread cheer on all fours better than Santa himself. Paws down, the best Beagle Santa with a scent of chicken joy! Catch you when I’ve finished my victory nap. 🐾🎅🎄 – Chicken Nugget Gordon

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Let me tell you a tail—er, tale—about the time I, yes, Gordon the Beagle, assumed the mantle of Santa Paws in Spencerville. Now, don’t go thinkin’ this was any ordinary occasion; circumstances demanded an extraordinary pup to step up when the jingle bells were ringing. Let’s just say, I had to go from sniffin’ out chicken treats to sniffing out Christmas spirit in one paw-shake.

So, it’s Yuletide in Spencerville, and the town’s a-twinklin’ with fairy lights from The Bone Appetit to the Waggly Tail Inn. I’m lounging at Pupsicle Palace, sippin’ on a chicken-flavored ice cream float, when I overhear a husky hubbub at Fetch! Toys and Treats. The usual Santa Paws, a jolly old Saint Bernard with a beard that could dust snow off your paws, was laid up with a sprained paw. No spreading joy, no secret Santa, no belly full of ho-ho-hos.

Cede, all droopy-faced and with more wrinkles than last year’s chew toy, says, “Well, who’s gonna fill Santa’s boots now?”

Lexi perks up her long ears, “How about that Gordon? He’s got the charm, the wit—though could use a touch more ‘jolly.'”

And what do you know? They all turn to look at me. Now, I’m no Saint Bernard, more a sage with a Beagle badge, but who am I to let down a town full of festive furballs?

I let out a sigh that ruffled my distinguished black saddle and accepted the challenge with a wag of my white-tipped tail. We planned Operation Santa Paws right then and there in the Husky Hill district café. Abby scribbled a nice list, Emma got on the naughty one, and Quincy agreed to be my top elf. Even got my pink hedgehog disguised as Rudolph—I mean, it’s not like I was gonna pull a sleigh myself, right?

The night before Christmas, I got into character. Slipped into the red coat—it clashed with my autumn brown, but what can a dog do?—and slathered on the scent of pine cones and peppermint till I was smellin’ like a walking Christmas tree.

First stop, Cream Maltese Meadow. I’m dropping off squeakers and bones like I was born to it. I got this belly laugh that had more “harumph” than “ho” but it did the trick. The fainting couch at Western Fawn Pug Palace almost got me, but by the canine stars, I kept my paws steady.

Even went to the beach, and you heard right before, not my favorite spot. But that night, I waded through the sand, my elf Quincy holding up a lantern, lighting up the path like we were hunting the Great Pumpkin. And the dog park? Filled it with tennis balls—every last one disappeared by morning, a Christmas miracle in its own right.

Now, the vacuum cleaners stayed put at The Doggy Depot, no need to ruffle my fur with that racket on Christmas. And as for the concept of swimming, well, let’s say Spencerville Pond was mysteriously drained of water and filled with cushions to prevent any misguided diving attempts.

When morning came, and the last wrapping paper was torn, each pup in Spencerville found a bit of joy, courtesy of their makeshift, four-legged Santa. And there I was, on Cream Maltese Meadow, sunbathing with a belly full of treats, basking not just in the sun, but in the warmth of good deeds.

So that’s the story of how this ol’ Beagle became Santa Paws. I may not have been the fluffiest or the most boisterous, but by dog, I was the Beagle with a bag full of joy that one enchanted Christmas in Spencerville. And, if you ever catch a whisper of chicken on a Christmas breeze, just know Gordon’s around, probably lounging somewhere, countin’ down the days till Santa Paws calls again.

The End.