Hey fam,

Just headlined the wildest Christmas show in Pawsburgh history – picture me as a fairy-lit reindeer nose-diving into a snowball! 😂 The crowd went nuts (literally, squirrels were watching), cats crashed the party, and the spirit of doggo-holiday unity was real. Coming home with more tails to wag and whopping good tales to tell. Stay pawsome!

Tail-wags and face licks,
Duke 🐾✨

Listen to the story here

In the decidedly dog-centric universe of Pawsburgh, a snug and snow-adorned town known only to those with four paws and a tail, I, Duke, found myself in the midst of a canine caper that could only be described as a ‘White Christmas Whiskers’ spectacle. It’s the sort of place where every fire hydrant is decked in holly, and every bark rings out with Yuletide cheer.

I was lounging, my scruffy coat warming a patch of sunlight on Lhasa Lane, when a half-frozen invitation, dusted with snow and smelling faintly of Spaniel Spaghetti sauce, somersaulted through the air and landed squarely in my lap. It was an invite to the annual Christmas show at Shar-Pei Shores, and I knew immediately that this night would be etched into the annals of Pawsburgh legend.

The show had been a tradition since Pawsburgh had been a mere paw-print on the map, and this year, I was to headline the event alongside a chorus line of high-kicking Jack Russells. The dogs in town panted in anticipation, tails wagging their own rhythms of excitement, much like my own trusty metronome of a tail.

My journey to the venue was fraught with distractions – an enticing new smell here, a mysterious rustle under the snow there – which, in Douglas Adams’ world, would result in me being affectionately termed a “recalcitrant rover.” Nevertheless, I pressed on, past the Barking Boutique’s display of festive collars, which, let’s be honest, were gaudy enough to make a magpie gag.

Just as Pawsburgh clock tower chimed with a sound that bore an uncanny resemblance to ‘Jingle Bells,’ I arrived at Shar-Pei Shores. The snow draped over the pavilion like a blanket over a slumbering child, and the stars twinkled down, serving as spotlights for the awaited show.

The first act unfolded with the finesse one could expect from a troupe of dogs trying to stage ‘A Christmas Carol’ without opposable thumbs. It’s safe to say Dickens wouldn’t have recognized his own work, but the intent was pure and the tails were high.

My own role was somewhat less dignified; I was to prance around dressed as a reindeer, pulling a sleigh whilst festooned in twinkling fairy lights that had more in common with a tangled ball of wires than anything remotely festive. Looking out into the audience, I caught sight of my motley crew of friends – the aloof Siamese cat had ventured into the heart of canine country and was now perched, just visible above a snowbank, her tail flicking in seemingly amused rhythm.

Then, a moment of drama – in the climax of my prancing, a fairy light wire ensnared my leg, and I found myself performing an accidental somersault. It was the sort of move that’d make an acrobat weep. The crowd gasped as I became a veritable snowball, but emerged triumphant, strands of light triumphantly aloft, giving me an unintended halo.

Applause broke out, surprising not just in volume but in apparent sincerity. It seems, in the dog-eat-dog world of Christmas shows, a tumble was just part of the spectacle. And there, in that flurry of admiration, a miracle occurred: founded friendships simmered like a good stew, and new ones popped up like unexpected daisies in winter.

When the final bow was taken, I traipsed back home, my route foul with the lingering scent of citrus from someone’s ill-advised attempt at doggy mincemeat pies during Act II. I settled by my humans’ fireplace, draped in a Christmas satisfaction that only comes once a year, ready to share the tales of Pawsburgh’s White Christmas Whiskers – a show that could only be described, in the gallant prose of Douglas Adams, as “mostly harmless,” yet wonderfully absurd.

The End.

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