Hey buddy, it’s Tomy! Just wanted to give you the scoop: I’ve turned into Pawsburgh’s unofficial social butterfly this season. Found myself leading a pack of merry mutts from a grilled chicken feast to Dachshund’s Deli, sharing stories and shenanigans. Turns out the best holiday treats are pals, paw taps, and a hint of possible puppy love. Tails wagging more than usual, catch up soon. 😉🐾✨ Tomy

Listen to the story here

In the heart of a frost-kissed morning, the kind that tickles your nose with invisible snowflakes, I, Tomy, awakened with the world in whispers. Ah, the holidays in Pawsburgh, where street lamps glow like low-hung stars and joy tumbles from the heavens like confetti.

My paws, itching with the secret thrill known only to those of us versed in the ways of Pawsburgh, scurried me out along the Schnauzer Street, giddy over the crunch of my pads against the cold that bit with friendly nips. The quiet of the cottage was replaced with a bustling murmur, a gentle cacophony of distant barks and woofs that serenaded the air, harmonizing with the harmony of my heart’s rhythms.

Let me tell you about the day when the usual delight of solitary pre-dawn escapades turned into the warm envelopment of unexpected company — the day solitude waltzed with solidarity and loneliness bowed out of the dance. As I made my way to Newfoundland Nook, a haven of rugged charm and frolicsome breezes, I met Bruno, breath fogging up as he regaled me, with more vigor than sense, of his midnight caper involving a squirrel, a top hat, and a truly unfortunate mailman.

“What’s the hurry, Tomy?” he challenged, his beagleish grin a curveball in my day plan. “The dawn has plenty to share, you know.”

Grilled chicken. The scent ambushed me around the corner, wafted from Mastiff’s Meals like a siren song coiling around my willpower. My stomach rumbled its intrigue as I sought to protest, but the beagle knew better, herding me towards temptation.

“I’m no soul to resist fare and friendship,” I admitted, nose uplifted to track the spice of the grill, the essence of holiday indulgence. Lulu sashayed over, those ears of hers flapping like festive flags beckoning me to frivolity. Laughter caught in my throat, a bark soft and sincere. I would’ve spun tall tales about strength against savory temptation, but who—tell me—who hath such fiction in the face of culinary truth?

Max, old boy that he was, joined the procession without so much as a sound — a master of his craft, stealth honed through years of experience, punctuating its presence with a knowing eye.

“The holidays aren’t for solitude,” he mused, the wisdom in his voice as clear as the crunch beneath our paws. “They are for tales told, new and old, woven between friends and moments like these.”

And so, there in the heart of festive Pawsburgh among confidants and comrades, I unearthed a treasure richer than any chew toy conquest. The scattered laughter of my kin, a medley as unpredictable as my favorite ball’s bounce, became the rhythm of my holiday heart.

Dachshund’s Deli served as the backdrop to our repartee, where tales spun from the threads of our collective capers warped and weft through a tapestry of kinship. But it wasn’t merely the chatter; it was in the stolen glances, paw touches beneath the table, and the shared sneers for carrot offerings — that unspoken unity.

As for romance, well, that’s a yarn for another time. The promise of something more, perhaps, in a tail twitch, a nuzzle next to Collie’s Cuisine or along the serene stretch of Pointer Pier.

The stars rose high and the stories grew more lavish, with rapturous howls to the moon about how could anything as mundane as sleeping or work or holidays apart be worth missing this — Pawsburgh’s parade of living,…

The End.