Hey buddy! Just a casual day of heroics here. Bella swallowed a squeaker, so I rallied the troops, whipped up a sausage lasso (don’t ask), and saved her vocal stylings for another day. Pawsburgh’s peace is once again thanks to yours truly, the ever-modest, squeak-squelching, tail-wagging Sarge. Stay pawsome! 🐾🚀 – Sarge

Listen to the story here

Oh, what a calamity it was. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Name’s Sarge—ring a bell? Thought so. A most recent catastrophe nearly befell the serene haven of Pawsburgh, and yours truly found himself smack in the middle of the drama that unfolded.

It was a day like any other in our charming Pawsburgh. Max, Bella, Whiskers, and I had arranged to meet at Pomeranian Park, right after feasting on Husky’s Hotcakes—where the syrup is always ample and covers the hotcake like the night sky drapes over the stars. Today’s special was chicken-flavored, a fact which would usually make me wag in appreciation, but as fate would have it, I wasn’t there for the pancakes.

You see, as I strolled down Akita Alley, where everyday gossip amongst us canines floats like dandelion fluff, I became terribly aware that the Alley was empty. The whispers were silent; it was like walking into a party where you, the uninvited, had picked the wrong date.

A sharp squeaking cut through the eerie silence—aha, there it was, my favorite sound. As the inquisitive Pitbull I am, I trotted toward the source at Canine Couture Clothing, expecting jubilation. Instead, I encountered Bella, mid-squeak, her paw pawing frantically at her throat.

“Bella, old girl,” I barked, “whatever has gotten your jowls in a twist?” Her struggle was the only answer she could muster—a pitiful accompaniment to the squeaky accidents of the balls that littered the floor. It was then I grasped the grave situation: Bella had swallowed a squeaker.

“Steady now,” I advised, gently thumping her back with my snout. Yet with each attempted thump, it was akin to pushing against a pillow stuffed with dread and feathers.

The Wagging Tail Bookstore is my usual go-to for answers, but today was not about tailors to the intellect. Today required action. And so, with haste that would put the quickest Chihuahua to shame, I galloped to Canine Kabobs.

Past the sizzling hearsay of Paw-tisserie—where chatters were as rich as their éclairs—and beneath the looming majesty of Hound Heights, I arrived, panting but resolute. There, the trusty folks dished out sticks of chicken kabobs, my usual delight, but, “No time for chow,” I barked, “an emergency at the Clothing store!”

“Hold your horses, Sarge,” they replied. Honestly, horses are hardly something one can hold, rather big for that. I explained the squeaky predicament of poor old Bella. With little ado, we fashioned a sausage link lasso—trust me, more effective than you’d imagine—and we bounded back to retrieve the awry squeaker from the Beagle’s gullet.

It took several tries, ingenuity, and several delectable sausages (a morsel or two for strength), but we emerged victorious from that bout of gastronomic gymnastics. Bella’s breathing returned, and the squeaking subsided to grateful, gentle pants. The day was saved.

“Next time,” I lectured, half in jest, “let the toys enjoy their own symphony, eh?”

Later that evening, I retold the adventure to Jamie with wiggles and excitable whimpers. As I finished, Jamie’s laughter filled the room, and I knew we’d share the tale for years to come—how Sarge, the Pitbull of Pawsburgh, orchestrated a rescue without so much as a dim of the limelight.

Oh, dear reader, you must understand—Pawsburgh isn’t just a town; it’s where heroes, without capes but with collars, play out the grandest of comedies and the direst of disasters with nothing but humility and a few choice barks.

The End.

Share This Story: