Hey Mom,

Another wild day in Pawsburgh! Patched up a Dalmatian with delusions of grandeur and thought of you over a steak that would’ve made your tail wag. Pawsburgh’s bustling with tales of endurance and love, and back home, Oreo’s snoring proves all’s right in our world. Missing our shared meals and your stories. Can’t wait till you’re back to this crazy canine kingdom!

Hugs and licks,
Nova 🐾

Listen to the story here

In Pawsburgh, where canine spirits roam free from the constraints of human eyes, there’s never a day without a tale or two. I am Nova, if you do recall—a fellow of no small reputation in these parts, with the sprint of a terrier and soul of a warm summer’s night. Allow me the honor, dear friend, to unfold the fabric of a rather remarkable day in my four-legged journey.

Morn was ablaze with the promise of untold escapades as I shook off the comforting cloak of slumber, bidden awake by the scents and whispers of my beloved town. With Oreo still curled in the dream-riddled corners of our shared bed, I slipped out to greet Pawsburgh bathed in amber light—one more day in the scrubs at Pawsburg Veterinary, nestled upon Rottweiler Ridge’s noble crest.

Racing through the dew-dropped Weimaraner Woods, the chorus of our forest brethren serenaded me toward duty. As I burst into the ivory halls swathed in the aroma of antiseptics and earnest promise, the staff, a motley crew of dachshunds to danes, each a specialist in soothing the ill and the maimed, hailed my arrival with approving barks and whimpers.

Today’s roster spoke of a peculiar case—a dalmatian with a hankering for heroic ventures had leapt zealously from off the Harrier Harbor Dock, only to clatter down not with a catch of fish, but with a painful limp that soured his sea-loved heart. I attended to his spirit as much as to the ailment, nursing both with tales of my encounters—ah, yes, my escapades were not medicinal, but the balm they provided could rival the potent concoctions brewed within these plastered walls.

As midday gave way to the mirthful hum of social tranquility, hunger nudged my belly to saunter down to Setter’s Steakhouse for nourishment, after all, a healer must tend to himself to best tend to others. As I chewed upon the delicate tendons of a prime cut—oh, bless the chef’s paws, for I suspect he knows well that morsel laced with the essence of a certain chewy treat is what sends my tail to rapturous wagging—I reminisced over those meals shared with Mom. Those moments, both poignant and indelible, shaped my ethos more than any doctrine could.

The day’s waning light saw me through more rounds, standing by those embroiled in the throes of recovery or the daunting precipice of surgery. Each pooch’s eyes, mirrors reflecting resilience and hope, fueled my resolve. Was it not for these very souls that Pawsburgh thrived, where no dog was a mere dog, but a living testament to canine endurance and love?

Evening drew its curtains as I made my pilgrimage back through the fetchingly quiet borough. I traversed past The Groom Room, where vanity seemed at once both frivolous and vital—a pleasant reprieve from the somber vows of vocation. Back at home, under the celestial blanket, Oreo’s comforting presence reminded me that no matter the valor of the day’s deeds, ’tis the home’s hearth that truly defines us.

I sprawled by her side, content in the silence that only true companions understand, my thoughts serenely adrift to Mom’s anticipated return. And there, in the realm of my gentle repose, I whispered gratitude to Pawsburgh—a haven for hounds and healer alike, where every dog had its day, and every day its dog.

The End.

Share This Story: