Hey Jamie! Just a quick tail wag to let you know I led the greatest canine-feline alliance to decorate our place for the big contest. The house is a glistening Christmas wonderland thanks to some crafty procuring and your unsuspecting snoozes. You’re gonna love it. 🎄🐾 Paws crossed for the win! *wink* ~ Your mastermind mutt, Maggie

Listen to the story here

The twilight serenade of the crickets outside our blue-shuttered house was winding down as I, Maggie, stretched upon the carpet of coarse cool grass. My eyelids fluttered, and as Jamie’s car purred to silence in the driveway, off I scampered into the magic of Pawsburgh.

Ah, you must remember, old friend, that it was that peculiar time of year—when humans dote over shimmering lights and baubles, gaudy ornaments, and those oddly-enticing sticks of candy that dogs should never sniff too close for their own good. Yes, Christmas was upon us, and Jamie, bless him, had the decorative prowess of a blind mole in an art gallery on the best of days.

I had taken it upon myself (as well as my motley crew of Whiskers and Chitters) to ensure we bulldozed our way through the local Christmas decoration contest. “Deck the halls,” indeed, but with a paw-focused twist. It was to be a Christmas coup of the most fantastical order.

Our first stop was Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, where the glitter of icicle lights rivaled the twinkling stars. Harnessing my prestigious bulldog bellow, we commandeered a heap of sparkling lights. “Now, Whiskers, do remind me of the correct way to entrap a spruce in lights, will you?”

“The same way one untangles yarn, darling,” the sage feline drawled. “With patience and no small amount of swearing.”

Onward to Terrier Town, where wreaths abound like the very fur upon our backs; verdant and endless. “Chitters, you scampering rascal, be a dear and fetch the most robust one, would you? Not that—no, not that either. Goodness, it’s like directing a symphony with a symphony!”

Finally, Saluki Sands, home of the grandest tree ornaments known to dogkind. The Pampered Pooch Salon (the gossip hub, as usual) glowed with savvier, finer décor than our humble abode. But no matter—we were on a mission, you see, of the utmost clandestine Christmas kind.

A swift interlude at Dachshund’s Deli rewarded us with sustenance for our nocturnal caper. “Chunky peanut butter,” I ordered, with a hint of haste. “Hold the oranges, of course.” My muzzle was smeared with the glorious sticky ambrosia of peanut’s concoction, as I pondered my next strategic move.

The nights were short, and anticipation hung thicker than fog on the Thames. Each sneak, each tiptoe through the night was a brushstroke on Pawsburgh’s canvas of Christmas wonder; a four-legged ballet of yuletide cheer, sans the actual ballet, naturally.

The eve of the contest dawned, and Jamie awoke to a festive marvel. His eyes widened, and a smile spread across his face, as contagious as peanut butter, I’d wager. We had transformed the homestead into a Christmas masterpiece without so much as a bark or a miaow.

As Jamie and I stood surveying the festive frippery, neighbors gathered, and awestruck gasps peppered the air like snowflakes—each one different, each one merited. We, my secretive crew and I, had not only pulled off a decorative miracle but also bound our little human community closer, with bows and collies, indeed.

With a lick and a smooch on Jamie’s nose, leaving a telltale peanutty imprint, I retreated beneath the blue-shuttered windows. As the judges crowned us victors, I pondered—as does any dog worth her tennis ball—about the simplicity of joy found in a ray of sunshine, a favorite snack, and the unbridled happiness of a human’s smile.

In Pawsburgh, a canvas once incomplete, my tail now wagged the colors of a vivid Christmas adventure, a tapestry woven by paws, whiskers, and delight.

The End.