Hey human,

Just rocked my ballerina solo in Pawsburgh’s wildest Christmas Show—think fur, fun, and the dance flair of a pup who skipped obedience school for the arts! Saved a snow-dance for Sam and scored extra chicken. Tail wags for the holidays!

Bark ya later,
Penny 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

Once upon a frosty evening in Pawsburgh, a snow globe of a town where canines reign, I found myself sans Sam with only the moon for company. It was the night before Christmas, you see, and the festive flutter in the air was palpable even to a Papillon of petite posture—me, Penny.

Silky ears alert to the muffled symphony of snowflakes touching ground, I embarked on a twilit promenade down Pearl Papillon Promenade, leaving behind an artful trail of paw prints. The luminous lights of Blue Basenji Bay glimmered in the distance, and frankly, the mere thought of another grand adventure sent shivers down to my dewclaws—not from the cold, mind you, but pure, unbridled anticipation.

Gallivanting through this winter wonderland, I was on my way to The Pawfect Training Center. Oh, it’s not what you’re thinking—no sit, stay, roll over shenanigans tonight. The place was abuzz, or as abuzz as things get in Pawsburgh, with rehearsals for the Christmas show. Think ‘Nutcracker,’ but with a canine twist and without the nuts, since well, they’re bad for us.

As I flounced in, the unmistakable scent of Poodle’s Pasta wafted through the air. A rumble from my belly reminded me of my cherished weakness for cooked chicken. It’s my jam, really. Carrots, though? Like yesterday’s newspaper, utterly unbefitting of a dog of my taste. Sent to exile beneath the sofa, never to be sniffed again.

“Ah, Penny!” Maxwell barked as I strutted in. He’s that scrappy terrier, a tad rough around the edges but adventure incarnate. “You’re just in time for the second act!”

Just then, Bella, gentle and as golden as the ornaments on a Christmas tree, emerged from the shadows. “Darling, your solo will bring tears to the toughest of bulldogs,” she predicted with a nuzzle. “Oh, and happy holidays!” she added, whilst balancing a Santa hat atop my head. Wise as she was, forgetting the hat could’ve been a Christmas catastrophe.

Our show was a glistening garland of genres, a tapestry of talent—and I, the prima ballerina, or at least that’s what that dapper Dachshund director implied, embellished the role with my ceaseless energy. I danced as if each performance were my last, my audience more enthralling than a squeaky hedgehog. Not mine though, he’s chewed to near extinction but squeaks like a champ!

During intermission, as I watched snow blanket the ground outside, I overheard a howl about snow sculptures at Onyx Otterhound Oasis. My paws itched to feel the densely packed snow, to carve the likeness of Sam’s face so the vet would truly think I’d been to the mountains and back.

Prancing back onstage, I heard the whispers of a budding romance between two Bulldogs in the polka scene, their eyes interlocking in sloppy, drool-laden affection. Sure, their moves were as agile as a cat on a Roomba. But who am I to judge? I once fell in love with a reflective glass door, and let me tell you, it didn’t love me back.

The finale was upon us, a crescendo of chaos and cheer. We were motley yet marvelous, dogs of all breeds sharing a single stage, embodying the spirit of Christmas. And as the curtain fell, Maxwell, Bella, and I took a bow, our very own white Christmas whiskers bathed in applause.

Exiting Bark-n-Bite Bistro later, belly full and heart fuller, I paused, and to the snowy heavens above, I dedicated a bark. A bark of gratitude for friends, festivities, and the fleeting frolics that Christmas brings. Sam would’ve loved this tale, and tomorrow, I’d wag it all to him—with every flit of my tiny, intrepid legs.

And, my dear human reader, should you ever find your way to Blue Basenji Bay, if you listen closely, you just might hear the echoes of our Christmas show, vows of friendship renewed, and a Papillon’s whispers of adventures born anew in Pawsburgh.

The End.