Hey Dad,

Whisked away on a tail-wagging adventure, I, as Russell (AKA Fat Russell), turned savior for a joy-lost elf in the big city. We navigated a concrete jungle, reunited a fragmented family, laughed through frosty trials, and in a flurry of fur and Christmas spirit, rekindled the warmth of home and heart. Mission accomplished: Fenway’s safe, Jingles is jolly, and I’m dog-tired but happy!

Catch you at the kennel,
Russell 🐾🎄

Listen to the story here

Well now, let me impart to you a fable from my adventures, ones as jolly and bustling as Santa’s very own workshop on the eve before the Big Flight. And I’ll tell you right off the bat—us pooches in Spencerville don’t wag tails for nothing; we’re beings of purpose and gusto, and I reckon I’m no exception.

It was a bright and frosty morning when I realized Fenway, my heartiest pal, had up and vanished swifter than a sneeze in the wind. Turned out he’d flung himself on a quest to the big city, following an elf named Jingles who’d lost his mirth along with his way. Now, the bond between a dog and his elf is as sacred as the silent pact between the Christmas Eve and the morn thereafter, and I was bound to see it mended.

So, with the boldness of a pup half my age and twice my size, I ventured out from the gates of North Chihuahua Castle, past the Retriever River, and made for the clamor of the city—with the merry jangle of sleigh bells ringing in my ears.

The city! A land where the lights blaze like a million fireflies trapped in bottles and the racket’s enough to drown out a chorus of hounds on the scent. It’s no place for a dog, especially one used to the lush sprawls of Westie Woods. But for Jingles, it was a place with chains, shackles binding him to memories of family long misplaced amidst the tinsel and the rush.

When I did find my elf companion, he was as droopy as last year’s tinsel hung on a wilting evergreen. Jingles, pressed against the cold glass of some towering maze of bricks and metal, was looking down at the passersby with a kind of longing that could make even a tough bulldog’s heart quiver.

“Russell!” he exclaimed as soon as he spied my brindle coat navigating the snow. He knelt, wrapped me in an embrace that carried the faint scent of candy canes and sorrow. “I knew you’d come.”

“Of course I did, and stop your moping,” I told him, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Now, let’s find that thing you’ve lost – your cheery self, your family, whatever it be – and skedaddle back to the Pole.”

We traipsed through that concrete jungle, while I lifted his spirits, recounting memories of our erstwhile pranks and japes back home. The story of when we dyed Santa’s white beard a lively shade of green earned me a chortle and an elbow nudge from old Jingles.

It wasn’t ’til we reached a tiny park, twinkling with festive lights, that we stumbled upon a sight that could thaw the frost on the coldest ice sculpture in Spencerville. There, laughing and playing in the snow, was Jingles’ kin. With a yip and a nudge, I propelled my elf friend toward the reunion he ached for.

Turns out, all it takes to bridge the gap of years and silence are a shared past, hopeful hearts, and a dash of Christmas magic—or so I’ve observed. Under the gentle glow of the lamplight, their voices rose and fell in the cadences of love and forgiveness, a melody even sweeter than a serenade by the Pooched Potatoes choir.

As I stood by, a silent sentinel to their joy, my thoughts wandered to delights of Bow Wow Burgers and the cozy warmth of my own backyard. My task here was done; Fenway found, the elf’s spirits lifted, the family reunited.

And with the city fading behind me, I swear I could hear the faint cries of our friends at Tail Waggers cheering us on. With hearts as light as a snowflake on the breeze, Jingles and I returned to where we belonged, with tales a-plenty to regale those at Retriever River or over a hearty meal at Tail Waggers.

In the end, the grand tale of an English Bulldog and his elf is just what you’d make of it—a toast to friendship, gumption, and the rediscovery of joy amidst the sprawl of a world too often forgetful of the simpler times.

And that, my friend, is a yarn spun true and through. One that warms the cockles of the heart like a yule log crackling merrily in the hearth, waiting for stockings to be hung and carols to be sung.

The End.