Hey Samwise,

Just had the wildest dream! Apparently, I’m not just your average treat connoisseur. I’m guardian of the garden, therapist’s assistant, and the secret ingredient to the quiet melody of your kitchen. Oh, and our four-pawed Christmas guardian thought I should know my barks echo louder than just at dawn. Remember, the best gifts are those we live – every single yip of it. See you when you wake. 🐾

Merry Barkmas!
Duffy

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Through the inviting murk of semi-consciousness—where dreams of chasing rabbits through the long grass mingle with a more primal, real-world scent of Sam’s roast—it hits me. The stark realization: it’s Christmas Eve, and there’s a peculiar stillness unlike any I’ve experienced before. Here I am, Duffy, the vigilant rat terrier, ensconced on this Yuletide night, not a creature stirring, not even a Max. But something’s amiss, the air’s charged, like the atmosphere before one of Sam’s special pumpkin biscuits lands splendidly on the kitchen floor.

So I think, “What now, Duffy old boy?” Sam’s out at another one of his festive shindigs. The scrumptious noise of merriment and laughter are but a distant hum on the breeze. I’m left alone to ponder the ol’ existential doggy dish—what’s my contribution? Sure, I’ve given the mail carriers their daily dose of cardio, better than a Jenny Craig regime. Granted, but hardly the stuff of “It’s a Wonderful Bark,” right?

The Pawsburgh crew, well, they don’t need my brave terrier heart at the moment. Whiskers, I’m sure, is peering down with that smirk only a feline can master, thinking, “Duffy, you’re spiraling, pal.” Spiraling! Perhaps she’s right. I’m all wags and woofs, but maybe that’s not enough.

Then, it happens. Amid my Christmas contemplation, a peculiar shimmer twinkles in the corner of my eye. Not the gleam of one of Sam’s culinary utensils—it’s deeper than that. I hear a voice, a tone so rich, it could out-savor Setter’s Steakhouse, “Duffy, it’s time you see the paw prints you’ve left behind.”

I blink, not the involuntary kind you do when life throws a lemon your way, but one of genuine stupefaction. There stands an ethereal figure, a canine of indeterminate breed, illuminating my humble abode with a glow that suggests a pedigree of otherworldly proportion.

The guardian angel, for that’s who this has to be, speaks in tones smoother than the finest pâté from Puppy Patisserie, “I grant you this night’s journey, to glimpse the universe where Duffy’s bark never graced the dawn.”

And just like that, we’re off—a sly shift from reality, rippling past Chestnut Cocker Courtyard. I witness a silent version of Pawsburgh—a husk, an unchewed bone of a town, missing the marrow of Duffy’s zest and zeal.

Betty’s garden, untended, whispers for my mischievous paws to dance through her lettuce beds. Max meanders through Terrier Town, his therapy sessions lacking my accidental sage advice that I bark into existence between retrieving the old tennis ball from underneath his couch.

And Sam. Oh, Sam! The clatter of pots and pans is now a silent symphony without my eager, food-critiquing gaze. The sting is palpable, as if nibbling on that accursed lemon all over again—except this time, it wrenches at my doggy heartstrings.

The realization licks at my conscience, a far cry from the fleeting anxiety that perhaps I was just a flea’s nuisance in this mammoth, tail-wagging cosmos Sam once saved me from.

The guardian angel speaks again, “See, Duffy? Your cannonball antics, your fearless joy, even your disdain for the beastly vacuum—every yip and yap forge your tale.”

A warmth blankets me, the feeling of returning home from a romp in Pomeranian Park. As we drift back, the shimmer fades, and my guardian angel bestows one final whisper, “Remember, Duffy, the greatest gift you’ll ever learn is just to bark and be barked in return.”

I awaken, nestled next to Sam’s slumbering form, our abode no longer still. There’s an unclad turkey leg by my snout—his way of saying, “Merry Christmas”—and I realize that indeed I’ve lived. It’s been a wonderful bark, and the best part is? It’s a story that’s still being written, one paw print at a time.

The End.

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