Hey there, it’s Percy! 🐾✨ Just wanted to bark your eardrum and let you know that this Yuletide, I stepped into the paws of Santa Paws himself – delivering joy and toys to all the good pups of Pawsburgh! If you’re sniffing out a chicken strip under the tree, you know who to thank. Tail wags and holiday hugs! 🎄🐶❤️ – Persephone

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Once upon a yuletide in Pawsburgh, where fairy lights twinkled like diamonds in a coal mine and the scent of gingerbread seemed to pirouette through the air, I, Persephone, found myself trotting down the frosted cobblestones of Hound Heights with a purpose. The kind of purpose that sets tails to wagging and ears to perking.

You see, I had just learned of a certain mystical role, one that only the bravest and most generous-hearted of dogs could fulfill: becoming Santa Paws. The legendary figure who brought joy and treats to all the good pups of the world on this, the most magical of nights.

It all began when Jamie, bless her soul, had to depart one crisp morning for a family gathering, leaving me with just a nostalgic pat on the head and an affectionate, “Be good, Percy.” As the door clicked shut, my adventure instinct pricked at my conscience.

Night fell upon my whiskers like a soft, woolly blanket as I barreled into Pinscher Plaza where the Pawsburgh council had gathered. There sat the Mayor, a portly Bulldog named Winston, decked out in a Santa hat so ridiculously small it seemed to be an afterthought on his noble head.

“Pardon me,” my voice came, strong but polite, “I’ve come to volunteer. To be the Santa Paws.”

Winston looked to me like a storied king sizing up a knight. “Persephone…Santa Paws is a role of great responsibility. Have you the heart, the courage?”

“I have,” I said with no ounce of doubt, my tail a steadfast metronome behind me.

“Very well,” Winston agreed, “but you’ll need a sleigh.”

Not a problem. At the stroke of midnight, I set off across the frosted town, my makeshift sleigh crafted from an old toboggan, with a team of sparrows chittering encouragement from above.

Our first stop? The Pampered Pooch Salon where a stockpile of chew toys awaited deliverance. I stuffed squeaky balls and rope bones into my sleigh, a veritable trove that would make my rubber-loving heart leap if I were on the receiving end.

Paws on the reins, I slid down the snowy knoll toward Eskimo Estuary, whispering a gentle “Ho, ho, ho!” that had more echo than intimidation.

I reached Snout Snacks, but no cookies for Santa Paws, for I had loyal hearts to warm, not a belly to fill. From The Pampered Pooch to Happy Hounds Dog Walking, my deliveries were met with curious sniffs and gleeful barks, unseen but sensed through the heavy doors of sleeping homes.

Oh, the thrill of stealth, the delight in giving! Each toy left was a little bolt of joy bit into the frosty air, for every pup deserved a gift on Christmas.

Avoiding the citrus-laden foods I abhorred, I nabbed the chicken strips from Dachshund’s Deli instead, the very flavor that made my taste buds dance a jig. Those I granted to the less fortunate, to the shivering strays and the old, toothless hounds of Pawsburgh.

And then, as swiftly as it had started, the night’s feat was done. My sleigh was empty, my heart full. I galloped through the sleeping town, my greyish/blue fur illuminated by the dawn’s first light.

As I settled on Jamie’s porch, exhausted but exhaling contentment, I knew that Christmas in Pawsburgh would be a little merrier, a smidge brighter, for I had embodied the spirit of Santa Paws.

And so, dear friend, if you ever stumble upon a shiny bauble or a juicy strip of chicken beneath your tree, think of me, Persephone, the pitbull of Pawsburgh, who once played Santa Paws, if only for a night.

The End.