Hey Sam, guess who just hopped out of a storybook to save Christmas in Pawsburgh? Yep, your noble Kova turned yuletide storyteller, lighting up faces like the last star on a tree. Mission: Spread cheer & save Christmas for little Molly. Mission Status: Paw-tastically accomplished! Drift off to dreamland, Sam, knowing your sidekick’s a Christmas legend. 🐾🎄 – The K9 Crusader

Listen to the story here

In the spectral glimmer of the fairy lights adorning every tree and post of Pawsburgh, I, Kova, found myself trotting with a purpose much grander than my usual twilight park sprints. One could argue the holidays were afoot based on the scent of cinnamon wafting from Barker’s Bakery alone.

Humming Jingle Bells on four legs, I paced down Candy Cane Lane, which, to the canine eye, was Kitsch with a capital K. Here in this enchanted enclave, a certain allure drew me every Yuletide, a feeling as warm as my favorite spot by Sam’s fireplace. But this Christmas, the spirit nestled itself deep in my brisket, sparking off into every speckle on my ears. They were broadcasting my readiness to impart a little holiday miracle.

Jasper, the fleet-pawed greyhound, had apprised me earlier of a curious case by Garnet Greyhound Grove, where an elderly Dalmatian known to us as Old Spot had shared tidbits of a disheartened human family. I felt it in my bones that this was no ordinary festive fable; it was a call to canine action.

“You there,” Old Spot heralded as I approached, his spots like frosted polka dots against the chill. “Heard the lowdown about the Thompson troop over yonder?”

“Give it to me straight,” I replied, my one patched eye narrowing in the most dashing manner I could muster.

“They’ve lost that Christmas zing—a heart murmur, not in the literal sense, eh?” Old Spot wagged his tail slowly, signaling the seriousness of the situation.

And oh, how it plucked at my heartstrings, as if played by a maestro of melodrama. The Thompsons, visitors to Pawsburgh, with little Molly—the girl who believed in Santa Paws with all her might—needed the touch only the spirit of Christmas (on four legs) could provide.

I trudged, a valiant companion set on a holly-jolly mission, through the flurrying snow towards Chestnut Cocker Courtyard where the family was staying. Leaping through a conveniently open window, I faced quite the tableau: saddened faces, a darkened Christmas tree, and a little girl nestled on a couch, her eyes glossy with the threat of tears.

“Hello, Molly,” I began, ever so gently, “I heard you needed a dash of cheer.”

You could’ve heard a kibble drop as the girl’s gaze met mine.

“Who are you?” she started, her voice a tender chime amidst the silent night.

“I’m Kova, raconteur of Wrapping Paper Wastes, veteran of the Great Ribbon Rebellion—” Well, I might’ve added a touch too much flair.

I regaled my tales, interwoven with merriment and magic of Pawsburgh, till cheeks were rosy and laughter filled the air. And it was somewhere between the tale of Jasper’s race against Santa’s sleigh and Bella’s nose uncovering the Great Pudding Mystery that the sprouting of smiles began. A shimmer of delight sparked in Molly’s eyes as she listened intently, her imagination painting our adventures into her world.

“Do you think Santa Paws knows about us?” Molly whispered, rapt with wonder.

“Knows? Why, he’s got you on his NICE list, twice!” I affirmed with a grin, fully aware of my ever-so-slight embellishment.

As night surrendered to the velvet of early Christmas morning, I returned to the familiarity of my own hearth, where Sam slept, ignorant of the small miracle wrought by a dog and his tales. A symphony of snoring, human and canine, accompanied the soft glow of the ember’s end.

The magic of Christmas in Pawsburgh can’t be fetched or rolled over for—it simply is, in the stories shared, the joy spread, and most importantly, in the hearts that believe. Even for the briefest of moments, I was the spirit of Christmas, and the city, oh, it twinkled brighter because of it.

The End.