Hey Dad,

In a tail-wag of adventures, I became Pawsburgh’s unsung Picasso, orchestrating a secret canine crew to out-decor the Thompsons & sprinkle magic right on our lawn for Christmas. Guess what? We triumphed, and the bond we share is now the envy of every pup on the block. Who knew my paws were meant for more than just knots in ropes? Merry Christmas, Dad – we’re the talk of the town! 🐾✨

Big love,
Bella the Artist 🎨🐕

Listen to the story here

I had always considered myself something of an unsung artist, the way I could turn a simple rope into a tangled masterpiece, a testament to the frenzied frolics with Dad. But as the holly-jolly season approached, it became apparent that my artistic flair would be channeled into a more… hmm, festive endeavor.

You see, in Pawsburgh, Christmas was more than a season—it was an extravagant display of companionship and, of course, competition. Our humans relied on us, albeit unknowingly, to make their homes the beacon of holiday spirit, and this year, Dad seemed peculiarly determined to trump last year’s winners, the tail-wagging Thompsons next door.

As the azure and alabaster pup that I am, I stood out against the snowy backdrop of our lawn—a wintry canvas awaiting its transformation. Dad would leave for work, and I, along with Pawsburgh’s cleverest canines, would sneak off to put our paws where our plans were.

Our first covert meeting took place at Kelpie Keys, the most serene of the town’s pick-me-spots, under the cloak of a moonlit sky. There, I was met with the wagging tails and bright eyes of my Pawsburgh confidants.

Baxter, a brawny Rottweiler with a mind for mechanics, outlined his vision—lights that danced and dazzled like the northern stars. And then was Chloe, the Jack Russell with paws practically dipped in glitter, who imagined a snowy spectacle fitting for Malamute Mountain itself.

We planned our midnight missions with the care of the masterminds at Pooch’s Pub, over a feast of peanut butter-filled morsels—ah, the stuff of dreams! And citrus, well, we left that out of the equation. My tongue can barely reminisce the tang without a good, dramatic curl.

The next few nights were a ballet of barks and borrowed baubles. Our swift paws dashed from Opal Pomeranian Park, where we swiped silvery tinsel, to the alleys behind The Furry Friends Art Gallery, where we pilfered paints safe for doggy decor.

Finally, the eve of the contest arrived, and our creation was a spectacle of sparkling wonder.

Dad’s jaw dropped as he took in the magic conjured in his absence—a symphony of twinkling lights, a parade of handmade ornaments, and a snowman, crafted with such care that it could have fooled even the resident snow expert at Malamute Mountain.

“I can’t believe it,” Dad whispered to the frosty air. “It’s perfect.”

The Thompsons came out and offered a congratulatory handshake, admitting defeat to a backdrop of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from the street. The victory wasn’t just in the acclaim; it drew us closer, tighter as a family.

As Christmas morning dawned, I lay curled up tight next to Dad under our newly-minted tree, replaying the adventures in my head. Maybe it was the merry twinkling of the lights, or perhaps it was the soft rhythm of Dad’s snores, but in that moment, I knew our decoration would be the talk of Pawsburgh long after the season ended.

And it was at this moment, in the silent reverence of the morning glow, that I realized… the tug-of-war rope had found a new rival in my affections. The joy of creation, impacting not just my own tail-wagging life, but the lives of those around me. Yes, this was a favorite well worth the revelation.

The End.