Hey Mom,

I turned hero for a night in Pawsburgh! Brought a cast-out pup named Rudolph, nose bright as a Christmas star, into the limelight to lead a foggy eve parade. Went from scaredy-cat to braveheart, all for a buddy in need. Our tails shined brighter than Rudolph’s schnozz! Never doubt your Tazbo Mania 😉

All my tail wags,
Taz

Listen to the story here

The sun had hung its hat for the night, and a hazy moon was grudgingly taking over the watch above Pawsburgh. In the obscurity of my human’s sleeping hours, my soul longed for the lights and life of my secret haven. I hopped onto the shadows at the back fence, feeling the familiar adrenaline as the town appeared before my four paws, magically materializing from the tender fabric of the night.

There I was, Taz, the Brindle Pit Bull, a dog of remarkable loyalty but unremarkable courage, if I’m painfully honest. The night held a certain Christmas chill, the kind that any respectable Flea Theatre director would pay top dollar to replicate for an off-off-Broadway show.

Grabbing my favored rope toy, a true relic from my puppyhood, I scampered past Setter Shore’s gentle lapping waves. It dawned on me how even the sea seemed to carry an air of resigned wistfulness, though that could have just been my stomach rumbling for something other than my dreadful kibble. Ah, but an indulgent meal awaited at Chihuahua’s Chimichangas, the kind where chicken – that divine poultry, that siren of the meat world – tantalized even the most discerning canine palate.

Sitting with Luke and Paco, the very images of canine mischief and camaraderie, the waitress at Chihuahua’s, a charming Pomeranian with a coquettish bow, sashayed towards us. She offered a menu which I acknowledged with all the enthusiasm of a philosopher contemplating a turnip.

“Chicken chimichangas,” I blurted out, “Extra chicken, hold the citrus dressing.”

“A classic choice,” she said with a smile as warm as a dog’s belly under the afternoon sun.

The night sauntered on in Pawsburgh, and our unlikely trio ducked into Weimaraner Woods, a place of primeval beauty where ordinarily I’d wax poetic about the play of shadows and light, but at the moment, the scene was laced with whispers of our peculiar mission.

Ah yes, the mission. You see, there was a certain Rudolph – a young retriever, not to be confused with those other holiday characters. He was bedecked with a nose bright as a Christmas ornament, ostracized for this supposed blight by the more conventional canines of our township. And there we stood, outside the grand meeting of the Pawsburgh Illumination Committee, peering through the frost-laced windows.

The Christmas Eve Lantern Festival loomed, yet a blanket of fog had wrapped the town, as if the clouds had descended in rebellion, envious of our terrestrial festivities. It was Rudolph’s overlooked beacon that could lead the parade. All he needed was an advocate, a friend, someone who often felt the sting of solitude themselves.

“I can’t go in there,” Rudolph whimpered. “They don’t even like my nose.”

“Nonsense,” I said, the reluctant hero to whom bravery is an unruly acquaintance, popping up at the least expected moments. “If Woody Allen could get Annie Hall to love him, surely we can charm Pawsburgh with your luminous snout.”

We triumphed, naturally, as Luke and Paco heaped praise onto Rudolph’s glowing attribute and I touted his navigational promise like a seasoned showman.

In the end, there we were, a glowing-nosed retriever at the helm, leading a parade that sliced through fog like a beagle after a hare. The jubilant cheers of the villagers would have warmed me, had I not been contemplating the absurdity of our predicament.

So there you have it, a Yuletide yarn spun from the heartstrings of a Pit Bull who’d normally shake at the sight of his own shadow. But in the town of Pawsburgh, every dog has its day. Or night, as it were. A true Christmas miracle wrapped in fur and folded into a tale that no human would ever quite believe.

The End.

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