Hey Dad,

Crazy day at the clinic – channeled my inner Sherlock Bones! Turned a cheesesteak caper on its ear and proved Mugsy innocent. Spencerville’s got nothing on this canine doc’s detective skills. Looks like my nose is good for more than sniffin’ out treats. Gotta bone to pick with mischief-makers!

Catch you for walksies later,
Russell

Listen to the story here

In the bustling boroughs of Spencerville, where the fire hydrants gleam a bit brighter and tennis balls never lose their bounce, I, Russell, find myself draped in a white coat rather prestigious for an English Bulldog of my stocky stature. Dr. Russell, they call me. Yes, a bulldog with a title, and no, I don’t mean the kind you bury in the yard. I’m the esteemed resident in the grand wards of Spencerville Veterinary Hospital—where our motto is “For every woof, a remedy.”

Episodic in nature, our days in this facility are nothing short of a dog’s answer to human melodrama. Tail-wagging highs meet the whimper-inducing lows. It’s a ruff life, but someone’s got to live it. Now, on to today’s thrilling escapade, which, mind you, was one for the Spencerville chronicles.

This morning was served sunny side up—we saved Mr. Whiskers from his ninth life crisis, and I performed an impeccable extraction of a squeaker accidentally ingested by one overzealous terrier. All in a day’s work, as they say. But things were about to get fur real.

As the sun sprawled lazily across the waiting room tiles, in strutted Fenway, distraught, his tan and white coat all ruffled. “Russell, buddy, there’s trouble afoot,” he barked, urgency lined with concern.

“What’s the diagnosis, Fenway?” I asked, donning my most stoic face. He was my friend, certainly, but in these halls, I’m a professional first, bulldog second.

“It’s Mugsy,” he whined. “He’s—”

I cut him off, “Lost his stuffing again?”

“Figuratively, yes,” Fenway replied. “But worse. Your guardian’s cheesesteak has gone missing, and Mugsy’s the prime suspect!”

My brindle fur stood on end. Not Mugsy, surely he wouldn’t dare. We dashed through the corridors, Fenway’s nervous panting harmonizing with the click-clack of my determined trot.

We arrived at the scene. There lay my plush comrade, guilty as a cat in a goldfish bowl, smug smile stitched across his snout. Mugsy could never resist those cheesesteaks any more than I. But justice had to be served—I was the healer of beasts, the seeker of truths.

The evidence was damning: a trail of crumbs, a splotch of sauce where Mugsy lay. I could almost taste the savory specter of beef and cheese myself. Yet, something seemed amiss—a Chekov’s gun yet unfired.

“Look here, Fenway,” I pointed with a well-chewed paw to the grease pattern that revealed—no paws, but a rather telltale human shoeprint. An inside job, by someone who wanted to watch the world burn, one stolen cheesesteak at a time.

Our investigation proved fruitful. Turns out, a mischievous intern fancied a prank, leaving both Mugsy and I absolved of any misdoing. The stolen cheesesteak was returned, an act of repentance from our remorseful culprit, and Mugsy was back in the game, albeit moderately drool-drenched.

I won’t lie, it was rather gratifying watching the pieces fall into place, a rawhide bone to gnaw on for my intellectual maw. And I must confess, between you and me, I pocketed that stolen cheesesteak for later.

For now, the records will show that Dr. Russell not only healed the animals of Spencerville but also served a slice of justice along the way. And as evening loomed over the Veterinary Hospital, I pondered the day’s oddities, a little more ruffle to my fur, a little more pride in my step.

If dogs could chuckle, I’d be guffawing at it all—the absurd theatre of it. But don’t fret, Spencerville citizens, your secrets and sausages are safe with me. Until tomorrow’s tales tangle our tails, I am Dr. Russell, and I bid you goodnight, and good belly rubs.

The End.