Hey Ma,

Just wanted you to know that this Christmas, I played peacekeeper in Pawsburgh and brought together Chichi and Shmu with a pair of grand treat baskets. Turned a plushie squabble into a pawliday miracle, spreading that real yuletide cheer. Who knew your Mugsy was such a softie, huh? The town’s buzzing with good vibes now. Merry Christmas, Ma!

Stay warm,
Mugsy

Listen to the story here

The festive whims of Pawsburgh during Yuletide—now that’s a sight, I tellya. I’m Mugsy, perhaps you reckon my face, or rather, my mug? Be it the twinklin’ lights ‘twas strung up ‘cross Terrier Town or the wondrous sniff of cinnamon and clove teasing out from the Woofy Bakery, it swaddled the town like a warm, woolen scarf.

Now, it’s well known that Pawsburgh, on a plain day, is somethin’ else. But come Christmas, well, let me spill you this one-of-a-kind tail.

‘Twas a crisp morn at the nip of December. I set paw outside, ready to embrace the Christmas capers. A soft snow began to quilt Mastiff Meadows, and Newfoundland Nook, well, you could swear it glittered under a new light. Course, my first trot was to Mutt Munchies for a sniff and gossip, but it was that sniff that cut through the cold and straight to my innards—fresh, hearty bones gifted by the proprietor to us, the loyal patrons. It was Christmas, after all.

Our pack, we always exchanged what you humans might call ‘gifts’: a playful romp, a good nibble—simple generousities that held us together. But somethin’ prickled at my pelt this morn. I noticed Chichi, who usually boasts a smile like a slice of the moon, he had his head hunched, facing that cool, unforgiving ground.

Curiosity got the better of my sensible schnoz, and I cantered over to Fetch! Toys and Treats to catch the yuletide news. And oh, there it was—all hushed woofs ‘n’ growls. Turns out, Chichi, my solid grey pal, had a falling out with Shmu over a plushie squirrel—it’s a dog’s treasure, you understand.

Now the spirit of Christmas ain’t about no plushie brawl, and it told me, as clear as a bell chime, that it was time for this bulldog to do bulldog deeds.

Truth be, I never took much to the fuss humans make over this season—wrappin’s and trappin’s and lights all dandy. But the essence, that shine in a young pup’s eyes spiritin’ generosity and togetherness, I reckon I got that in spades.

I made up my bulldog mind, waltzing over to the Woofy Bakery where the scents can churn a frown upside-down. With a few words to the baker and a swap of a hefty bone, I had ’em prepare two of the grandest Christmas treat baskets, set with all the trimmin’s.

My paws, steadfast, hauled the baskets to where Chichi and Shmu stewed in their scrooge-y brew. I dropped ’em down with a grunt and, lookin’ from one gloomy pooch to the t’other, I barked, “Christmas ain’t ’bout who gets the squirrel, it’s ’bout sharin’, ’bout whoever don’t got no squirrel gettin’ a piece of yers.”

Tails stopped, eyes widened—bulldog seriousness can do that—and there it was, a shift. From a lifted paw to a waggin’ tail, the ice melted quicker’n snow on a sunny sill.

By the eve, we all gathered at Mastiff Meadows, ’round the grand ol’ fir tree, glistened with ornaments as we shared tales and treats. Even the vacuum—the harbinger of noise and ender of peace—was forgiven on this day of days.

So remember, when next you stroll through the magical town of Pawsburgh or glimpse your own loyal mutt dreamin’ by the fireside, know there’s a place where every snout tells a story of Christmas, where even the gruffest of bulldogs weaves a tale of togetherness. After all, ain’t that the true spirit we all yern for?

The End.