Last Christmas, my dad made gift bags for every dog at the park. Not just any bags, but ones packed lovingly to the brim with chicken jerky—the kind of treat that made tails wag and paws dance in delight. He spent hours carefully preparing them, imagining each dog’s reaction and picturing their humans’ smiles. It wasn’t about recognition; it was about joy, pure and simple.
This year, however, Papa decided to do something a little different. “I give them the chicken jerky every day,” he said to me, shaking his head with a mischievous grin. “So while they love it, it’s really not special anymore.” He wanted this Christmas to be about more than treats—it had to be about warmth, thoughtfulness, and connection. And so, Papa went shopping—but not for the dogs. He bought gifts for their humans.
He carefully selected hats and scarves. “The hats are Canadian,” he explained over the phone, pride audible in his voice. “They really know how to stay warm.” He examined the scarves with an almost comical seriousness. “Fine merino wool,” he said. “None of that stuff that feels soft but falls apart after one season.” He picked twenty of each, enough for the “breakfast club” regulars—the early-morning dog walkers who turned the park into a community, exchanging greetings, laughter, and stories along with a few dog treats.
This morning, Papa headed down to the park, gift bags in hand. But these gifts weren’t just scarves and hats—they were symbols of care and love, small reminders that every gesture matters. “They’re really for the dogs anyway,” he told me, his voice twinkling with amusement. “Their humans have to be warm so they can walk them.”
The park was alive as usual, with dogs of every shape and size bounding across the grass, leashes tangled, tongues lolling, tails wagging. But today, there was a different kind of excitement in the air. Papa went from person to person, handing out the gifts, his eyes twinkling with the delight of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. The humans laughed, surprised and touched by his thoughtfulness, while their dogs watched eagerly, tails thumping, clearly aware that something wonderful was happening.
One woman, wrapped in a scarf that Papa had personally chosen for her, looked at him and said softly, “Thank you. This means so much.” Another man, trying on his new hat, shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you thought of us,” he said, smiling. All around him, small acts of gratitude and happiness unfolded—hugs, high-fives, belly rubs for dogs, and a general sense of warmth that had nothing to do with the winter air.
Papa sat back on his park bench for a moment, surrounded by dogs, their humans, and the soft morning light. He watched as the community he’d been quietly nurturing continued to grow, one scarf and one smile at a time. For him, it wasn’t about the gifts or even the joy they brought—it was about connection. About showing people that love and thoughtfulness, even in the smallest forms, can light up someone’s day.
By the time he left, the park felt different—warmer, brighter, and full of laughter. I looked at him from afar and realized again just how rare he is: a man whose love is consistent, whose heart is big enough to embrace dogs and humans alike, and whose small acts create ripples of joy far beyond what he can see.
The world really needs more Papa. And for anyone lucky enough to witness him, it’s a lesson in kindness, generosity, and the magic of a thoughtful heart.
