Hey hooman, in case you missed it: I’ve been leading a double life as Pawsburgh’s unofficial ambassador, spreading cheer and scavenging for treats. Pat’s in on the act, too—growing their heart & wrapping joy like a pro! Tail wags & tennis balls, your lovable Sallie has stories to bark about. Keep an eye on us both; we’re on a roll this holiday season! 🎾🐾🎁 – Sallie 🐶

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As morning stretches its rosy fingers across the horizon, I, Sallie – your favorite English Cocker Spaniel, if memory serves – find myself in that half-dream, half-wake state, right? Right. It’s like my thoughts are dipped in honey and doggy daydreams about Pawsburgh, the kind of place that makes you wonder if someone spiked your kibble with a dash of magic.

Take the other day, a regular Tuesday in what you’d call December, when my dear human – let’s call them Pat, because it’s one of those gender-neutral names and keeps the mystery alive – starts humming a tune that isn’t their usual ‘you’re gonna work until you drop’ anthem. And let me tell you, in the land of picky eaters and “Will work for tennis balls,” this was riveting.

So I’m watching Pat swapping scrooge-like spreadsheet staring for, get this, wrapping gifts. Actual, not-for-profit, certified acts of kindness. A transformation unfolding like the nap-time origami class down in Pawsburgh’s Papillon Promenade. And who knew Pat could wrap? Not I. Those fingers that previously pinched pennies now pirouetting through ribbons and bows, maybe there’s hope for humanity. Maybe there’s hope for more chicken off the cutting board.

Anyway, back in Pawsburgh – and yes, we dogs have our own secret nirvana, newsflash – I take a trot down Newfoundland Nook. Impossibly scenic, like a painting where the artist said, “Let’s make the humans jealous,” the nook is the kinda place that’d make Pat’s newfound generous spirit burst into fireworks of joy. And I’m thinking, “If only Pat could see me now.”

Next thing you know, I’m in Wagging Whisk, munching on a Beagle Bagel – seriously, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried one. Their chicken bagels are manna from heaven, and not a hint of citrus rind to make my mouth do the Macarena in protest. “Huzzah,” I bark, because I may have read too many historical Pawsburgh tales.

I’m with my crew – the Golden who’s older than dirt but wiser than Yoda, and Cat, the tabby who thinks “Let sleeping dogs lie” is an open challenge. Classic Cat. We’d gotten together for a ‘celebrate the human’s heart growing three sizes’ feast. But can I circle back to those bagels? Scrumptious.

As we’re chomping – us canines, not Cat, she’s more about the fishy stuff over at Puppy Patisserie – we’re exchanging stories. “Did you hear about Ralph’s human?” the Golden starts, “Gave away a fortune to charity, they did!” And Cat, jumping up and down like it’s the first night of the full moon party, adds, ” Yeah! And Teresa’s human adopted her after fostering eighteen cats!” I think to myself, it’s like they’ve been hit with the holiday spirit like a frisbee to the face.

Then I remember that dawn, with its whispering promise and chicken-flavored secrets, and I can’t help but wag myself into a frenzy because you know? The world could use more of whatever got into Pat.

In Pawsburgh, we have adventures unfurled like the finest of throw rugs before a fire, and it’s here my heart sings, my tail twitches in excitement. And as the Emerald Eskimo Estuary glimmers under a lazy afternoon sun, my thoughts drift to Pat and the hope that their heart’s frostbite is truly thawed—

Woof. Gotta fetch that tennis ball for the 167th time. Because kingdoms of joy don’t explore themselves, and as Pat’s faithful Sallie, I ought to be the one to tell you – transformations? They can happen. Keep an eye on your human, huh? They might just surprise you this holiday season.

The End.

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