‘Twas the night before Christmas, and Adams County lay blanketed in snow. Mounds of snow. Piles. Drifts. And still it kept falling, every snowflake hurrying to the ground on the whipping wind. This was a “bomb cyclone” snowstorm to make the one of ’93 proud.

In the police department at the Gettysburg Borough building, a red alarm light suddenly began flashing and a frantic rendition of “Jingle Bells” screeched.

“What’s going on?”

“What’s the alarm for?”

“Has that always been there?”

“Where’s the music coming from?”

“Attention, everyone!” the police chief hollered over the noise. “NORAD has issued a Code Red! Santa is lost somewhere in Adams County! You’ve trained for this; let’s go!”

Officer Oliver (not his real name because, of course, we can’t disclose who is in charge of the Santa Emergency Beacon) dashed for the new Gettysburg Police pickup truck. Back in ’93, after Santa got lost for three days, NORAD devised a system of emergency beacons to be scattered throughout the country. In proper government fashion, it took them 30 years to implement the plan. But Gettysburg finally received their beacon in 2023, squirreled it away in a secret vault, and bought a pickup truck to transport it when needed.

He climbed inside and, as the others loaded the beacon in the back and strapped it down snug, he took a deep breath and pushed the “Snow Emergency Mode” button which, unlike other features, was not on the touchscreen but was a physical button with an elf’s hat icon.

Someone thumped on the back window that they were ready, and he started off. The truck plowed through the drifted snow like it was nothing, speeding the two blocks up to the Square. By the time they arrived, the bed of the truck was nearly full of snow. The officers shoveled it out, unloaded the beacon, and set it up next to the Christmas tree in the Square.

Just as they were about to plug it in, a huge white blur rumbled in, grabbed the beacon, and thumpity-thump-thumped away, laughing!

“What the—?”

“Hey! Come back here!”

“It’s Frosty!”

“Stop!”

“Haha! Catch me, if you can! Haha!” drifted back to them on the wind.

Officer Oliver leaped into the truck and tore after the distant lumbering form of Frosty. But now, even in “Snow Emergency Mode,” the truck fishtailed and slid, and Frosty’s form grew smaller and smaller as the snowman bounded in his natural element. And then, with a big, soft “floomph!” the truck landed in a huge drift.

“What happened?”

The voice startled Officer Oliver, until he remembered that the radio channels remained open in a Code Red emergency. “Oh, I’m stuck in a ditch.”

“But we need the beacon! Santa’s lost out there!”

Officer Oliver was already dialing his cell. “Don’t worry. I’m calling for backup.”

“Who? PennDOT is snowed in. The PSP isn’t answering their phone. I think even Letterkenny is snowed in.”

Officer Oliver heard a sleepy “hello?” on his cell and breathed a sigh of relief. “Joanie! I need your help!”

“Officer Oliver!” the voice woke up. “Are we going out for a puppuccino?”

“Santa’s lost and Frosty stole the emergency beacon. I need the Civil War cats to find Santa and get him back on track!”

***

At Civil War Tails, Joanie the Museum Dog explained the situation. The cats sprang into action.

“Tell the Signal Corps to keep an eye out!” Gen. Grant ordered.

“Tell Gen. Stuart to scout—” Gen. Lee stopped and looked around. “Where is Stuart?”

Lt. Col. Ely Parker reported, “Signal stations say the snow’s too thick to see anything. Black flags and signal torches are both useless.”

“What’s the last known location for Santa?” Grant asked.

Parker shrugged. “NORAD lost him near Fairfield. They got a patchy transmission afterward—he said something about Steinwehr and the Eternal Light Peace Memorial.”

Both generals groaned. “They’re nowhere near each other! He could be anywhere!”

Patrick the Only Clay Dog bounded up. “Maybe I could sniff him out,” he offered.

“Good idea! Joanie, will you help?”

“I’d love to,” Joanie replied, wagging her tail, but then her ears drooped at a sudden thought. “But I’m not allowed outside unless I have a leash ‘with a hooman attached to it.’ And all my hoomans are snowed in at the Christmas Eve service.”

Grant rolled his eyes. “Now she decides to obey!”

“Please,” Lee prompted. “It’s an emergency.”

Joanie said in a small voice, “But if I’m naughty, Santa won’t bring me a big bone chew this year.”

“We need a human!” Lee called across the museum.

10,011 pairs of cat eyes, 789 pairs of horse eyes, and two pairs of dog eyes stared back.

“Um,” Grant said, “the whole point in Civil War Tails is that we’re cat soldiers.”

Everyone groaned.

“May I be of assistance?”

Everyone turned at the strange voice—a dapper officer astride a white horse, flanked by half a dozen cavalrymen. Men.

“Of course!” Grant hopped up and down in joy. “You used to be at the Soldier’s National Museum!”

The little metal soldiers nodded.

Joanie was already wriggling into her winter coat that Nana had made. “Let’s go!”

The cavalrymen wrapped her leash around her in a snug harness and climbed aboard her broad back.

Ready, Joanie bounded out the door, with Patrick skittering beside her on top of the snow.

Patrick spoke up. “But how will we find—”

 “COOKIES!!” Joanie’s eyes got big and bright, and her ears perked straight up. “I smell sugar cookies with a hint of sweaty reindeer!” She dashed off, and Patrick had the presence of mind to grab the tip of her tail as it whipped past.

The cats streamed after her. Snow blew in their faces, hiding all buildings, street signs, lights, trees and fences from view, but they could still glimpse the bright orange of Joanie’s quilted coat, and her voice came back on the wind, crystal clear, “Cookies! Cookies! Cookies! And fruitcake! Oh, but I can’t have that. Oh! Is that—? Oh, it IS! DONUTS! DonutsCookiesDonutsCookies!…” and on and on she went.

They found Santa in a patch of woods that looked like every other Pennsylvanian patch of woods, with his sleigh stuck fast in a creek bed snowdrift.

“SANTA!!!” Joanie nearly leaped on him in sheer exuberance, but remembered her manners at the last instant, plunked into a “sit” with a suddenness that nearly jarred her passengers loose, and began wagging her tail—swisha-swisha-swisha—in the snow.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Santa exclaimed, looking more weary and worried than jolly. He handed Joanie a cookie, rubbed the dog slobber off his glove, and said, “Of all the years for Rudolph to be sick!”

“Don’t worry,” the cheery voice of Pvt. Quinlan Sullivan piped up. “We’ll have you out and on your way in no time!” His team of artillery horses trotted up to the sleigh. Artillerycats unhitched the exhausted, sweaty reindeer, and Sullivan began backing his limber towards the sleigh.

“Don’t hit it! Be careful! Ohhh!” Santa put his gloved hands to his mouth. “Oh dear, if you dent it, the magic won’t work and I’ll never finish my route on time!”

Lt. Hazlett chuckled from where he sat his horse, watching. “Don’t worry, sir. Sullivan’s our best driver, and he’s been practicing this maneuver, ever since he watched a Facebook video of the Budweiser Clydesdales backing their wagon up to the loading dock.”

Sure enough, the limber stopped just in front of the sleigh, and sailor cats had the two lashed together in no time. With the reindeer and horses pulling together, they got the sleigh out with hardly any trouble—except to Santa’s blood pressure.

Merrily, they all headed back to Gettysburg, so Santa could fortify himself with some of the famous eggnog of the Civil War cat ladies, before finishing his route.

As they passed through the Square, who should appear but Jeb Stuart, Mosby, and Custer, escorting a befuddled Frosty.

“It was just some fun,” the snowman tried to explain as they handed the beacon over to a grateful Officer Oliver at the Christmas tree. “It was just a joke! Haha! Funny!”

No one bothered to reply.

“Joanie,” Officer Oliver called, as the procession turned down Baltimore Street.

Joanie bounded over. “Did I do good?” She wagged her tail.

“We have whipped cream at the police station. If you can spare a minute, we can go make you a puppuccino.”

Joanie’s face lit up and she bounded up and down like a dolphin, smiling from ear to ear. “A car ride?” She bounded in a wriggly circle. “I finally get to ride in your truck? Yay-yay! Oh, this is so exciting!”

And so Christmas was saved again. Santa went on his jolly way (we shall not say if he was or was not a little tipsy on eggnog), and Joanie was rewarded with a car ride, puppuccino, and donuts and Christmas cookies at the Borough building, where everyone told her she was a Good Pup. Which, of course, she knew!

Merry Christmas, everyone!