Hey there! 🐾 Just coped with a major broccoli crisis at Setter Shore, of all places. Who knew my slobbery Bulldog determination would turn into lifesaving heroics? Yup, that’s me, Daphne, not just a pretty patch but also Pawsburgh’s unintentional veggie-vanquishing hero. All in a day’s bark! 🦴🚀 Remind me to avoid the green stuff at dinner, will ya? Woofs and wags, Daphne 🐶💖

Listen to the story here

In the quaint and kibble-scented corners of Pawsburgh, where hydrants are gossip stations and every snout has a story, I proudly trod with a swagger only a Bulldog can carry. Yes, I am Daphne, the one with the heart-shaped eyepatch, and as fate would have it, a day at Setter Shore would plunge my paws into a tale as slobbery as a chew toy.

Dawn had yet to break; the humans slumbered, unsuspecting as we, the valiant canines of Maple Lane, ventured through moonlit paths to our secret haven. With my crooked tail wagging a crooked rhythm, I set forth on the day’s adventure – one that, unbeknownst to me, would be a far cry from the ordinary romp.

My rendezvous began at Whippet Way, its lively bustle akin to that of a dog park gala. Whiskers, the sage feline, raised an eyebrow at my arrival. “A little early for your rounds?”

“And miss the sunrise over Setter Shore?” I scoffed, the salty breeze already a siren call. Whiskers winked. Clever cat.

I could taste the sea foam before we even reached the crest, where the world opened up to sandy expanses. But instead of gallivanting gulls, a crowd formed a furry crescent around something—or someone—by the water’s edge.

“Step aside,” barked a voice firm yet fluttery, like a butterfly in a jar. It was Dr. Snout, Pawsburgh’s most eminent vet, his coat as white as his credentials.

I weaseled through to find a Pomeranian, who despite her voluminous fluff, was quite indisposed, coughing up more drama than a season finale.

“Broccoli,” whispered Scraps, the squirrel who knew everyone’s business as he did every acorn’s location. “An entire floret, lodged in her throat. The dish of the day at Collie’s Cuisine.”

Broccoli, my nemesis! My heart sank but my spirits rose—it takes a bulldog to face a bulldog’s bane.

“And what can you possibly do, Daphne?” Dr. Snout sneered, doubt dripping from his canines. I knew with each disparaging word he hoped to neuter my courage, but he was barking up the wrong dog.

I nudged my way forward, the Pomeranian’s whimpers a soundtrack to my determination. Locking eyes with her, I thought of Eleanor’s humming, the soothing cadence that always led me to peace… and to action.

I positioned myself, ready for the task, my broad chest sinking into the sand, my every muscle a coiled spring. Then, in an expression of pure instinct and affection, I pressed gently against her side.

Moments stretched like a leash too long, and then… a miraculous cough and the broccoli floret rocketed out like a furry little green meteor.

The cheers were instant, jubilant as a dinner bell’s ring, and the Pomeranian’s owner, once able to breathe, yapped a chorus of gratitude. “You saved her—you’re not just a pretty patch!”

“Always happy to help,” I mumbled, cheeks flushed under my fur.

As the heroics dimmed and Whippet Way reclaimed its walkers, Dr. Snout approached, his tail a white flag. “I stand corrected, Daphne. Your method… unconventional, but effective.”

With my stumpy tail held high and my head higher, I sauntered toward Pom’s Pies for a well-deserved slice of watermelon jubilee, the tune of Eleanor’s hum a lively jig in my heart.

You see, in Pawsburgh, our days may begin as a simple trot down familiar paths, but by the time the moon winks its sleepy eye, every paw print tells a story—a story of courage, companionship, and the odd piece of rogue broccoli.

The End.