Hey there! Imagine me, Marcus, on an epic solo ride aboard the Polar Pooch Express to the North Pole—no Bella or Max, just me & my blue squeaky ball. Dodged a festive bath thanks to a wise Husky and returned home bath-free with a sleigh-load of stories. Prepare for tail-wagging tales, my friend! 🐾🚂✨ – The Marvellous Mr. M

Listen to the story here

Ah, ’tis I, Marcus the Fawn French Bulldog, with a tale reminiscent of a crisp Yuletide fable. Picture it: ’twas a frost-kissed eve in the magical town of Pawsburgh, where grand escapades unfurl like a puppy’s tongue at the sight of an errant squirrel.

That particular evening, I found myself at Hound Heights, eternally grateful, mind you, for the warm grandeur of my snug sweater, delicately knitted by my human of fresh biscuit aroma and bibliophilic essence. A paw-pattering anticipation buzzed through me; for that night, I was to embark on The Polar Pooch Express, a locomotive fabled to whisk whiskered wayfarers to the North Pole.

Now, you’d reckon I’d have a gaggle of compadres with me—but nay, for Bella, befittingly engaged in her literary endeavors, and Max, daftly chasing his own tail, had prior engagements. So, in singular boldness, I sallied forth, alone but for my cherished, indeed, nearly invincible blue squeaky ball.

The train, oh the train! A marvel on rails bedecked with twinkling lights that could rival the show of stars above. It was as if the train itself barked a jolly “All aboard!” as my paw set upon the velvet-soft carpeting of the coach.

A clatter and chug ensued as our journey began; I nestled into a plump seat by the window, the glass cold as a nose-tip in February. The scenery whizzed and danced, a whirl of snowflakes, the lands beyond a blur—yet that urge to press my nose against the pane was irresistible.

I perused the menu, the cluck of Sunday chicken memories in my best dreams, but alas, despair: the closest morsel was a turkey feast. Meritorious, sure, but rather not my delicate penchant. A kindly Spaniel waitress clocked my dilemma and fetched a special treat—chicken, indeed—from Pom’s Pies no less, with nary a citrus slice in sight.

Among the mirth and howling good cheer, one confounding inconvenience persisted: bath time loomed at journey’s end, I heard, a supposed North Pole tradition. My bat ears drooped just so, betraying a shudder most uncharacteristic.

Yet our arrival eclipsed such worries. A spectacle of lights, a chorus of howls and yips greeting us, and I stood awed, this stocky gent amidst an exhilaration of furry forms. And there, most unexpectedly, an elder Husky with an eye glinting with understanding ushered me away. “No baths in the North Pole, my bulldog friend,” he rumbled, “Just the jingle of bells and the crackling of fire.”

Relief washed over me, sans soap, as I reveled in the escape from my dreaded bath.

Soon, our time in that wintery dreamscape approached its twilight, and I took with me not just a squeaky ball’s worth of memories but a fresh tale for Bella and Max.

As the Polar Pooch Express steamed homeward, I penned this very memoir in my mind’s ledger. Upon my return, greeted by the familiar scratch behind my ears—no bath in sight, a merciful reprieve—I settled into my cushions, the whispers of Pawsburgh’s enchantment enveloping me like a warm, familiar blanket, with nothing but the content sighs of a French Bulldog ready to share his extraordinary adventure.

The End.