Heya, just trotting into your inbox to drop a tail-wagging tale from Pawsburgh’s frosty streets.✨🐾 Imagine me, Gracie, finding my rhythm with a Little Drummer Pup, turning an ordinary day into a parade of paws and hearts beating the chill away. Not the hero, but the happy hoofbeat in a holiday story which warmed more than paws—it warmed souls. 🎄🥁❄️ Catch you on the flip side of the fire hydrant!

Tails up,
Gracie 🐶💖

Listen to the story here

So it goes, I trotted.

Once upon a time, in a Pawsburgh Christmas that smelled like pine and sounded like joy, we found the rhythm of paws against cobblestone and hearts in anticipation of the holiday cheer that was to unravel.

I often frequented Topaz Terrier Town, a place less frequented this time of year due to the chill, but I loved the stillness of it — the sense that stories could be heard if only one listened closely enough. Today, however, the quiet was disrupted — a cadence, a percussion, a hum of life. The Little Drummer Pup sat there, a shaggy mongrel with ears too big for his head and paws that danced over the drum’s taut skin.

I, Gracie, stood mesmerized, my ball forgotten beneath the tendrils of fog rolling in from the river. There was a simple grace to his beat, a clear-eyed innocence that ran deeper than the river carrying melodies.

My days were usually buoyant, chasing after my truant ball or relishing in the savory delight of chicken treats. Fates frown at monotony, or so I’ve concluded, and this new twist was my holiday surprise—a pup with nothing but the beat and the pure joy it poured into Pawsburgh’s chilly air.

I approached the pup, his rhythm never faltered, and for reasons I can’t tell you, because who really knows why we dogs do what we do, I started to hum. Humans have funny notions, thinking that dogs can’t keep a tune, but there, in Topaz Terrier Town, the Little Drummer Pup and I, we found our song.

“You’re Gracie, aren’t ya? The one with the unpredictable ball?” he paused only when he spoke, which made for an interesting sort of conversation.

“That’s me,” I replied, “and who might you be, drumming so gaily on this frost-covered morning?”

“Name’s Drum,” he said with a wag of his tail I found rather endearing. “Brought nothing but this,” he gestured to his instrument with a paw, “Figured it was enough to bring some warmth to the cold snouts and chilly paws around here.”

It was then I understood the gift Drum offered. It was the beat, the shared moment, the connection that drove the cold away—not from our coats, but from our souls.

As we made our way through the cobblestoned streets of Pawsburgh, stopping at the likes of Wagging Whisk and Hound’s Hotdogs, the aromas inviting, the scenes picturesque, we gathered an audience. They followed, a mismatched choir of wagging tails and perked ears. We made it a parade, our fur-clad party, and strayed upon Chestnut Cocker Courtyard.

Here, the air was ripe with evergreen, the lights twinkling like stars plucked from the sky just for us. The drumming echoed, transforming each bark and yap into a harmonious chant.

You see, I wasn’t the protagonist of this tale—I was the witness, the curled white spectator to one pup’s simple gift of rhythm. My nose wrinkled at the citrus garlands, my disdain for their zesty sting adding an oddly fitting drumroll to my retreats.

But Gracie’s Day Out with Drum became more than an episode; it was a lesson in humility and the magic of simplicity. A glistening thread woven into the fabric of Pawsburgh’s holiday spirit, a melody that would resonate in the howls and whispers of our doggy dreams.

And so it goes, we danced.

Our snow-crusted paws left prints on the historical landscape of Pawsburgh, imprints on the hearts that witnessed the Little Drummer Pup and the Bichon-Poodle with the bounce of joy echoing in her step. And that, dear friends of mine, was the beat that warmed the cockles of Pawsburgh that Christmas.

So it goes, so it went, the beat still dances in my heart.

The End.