Hey Jamie,

What a day! Turned the Fur Palace into the OR as I played paw-operative surgeon to your slipper (yeah, Code Red in Shoeville!). Don’t worry, it’ll survive – though it might favor one paw for a while. Paws crossed for a full recovery!

Catch you on the fluff side,
Roxie 🐾

The sun was barely kissing the horizon when I clocked in for my shift at Pawsburgh Veterinary – or as we in the know like to call it, “The Fur Palace.” A knowing look from Luna, the German Shepherd surgeon, told me the ER was already in full swing. Nothing spells ‘Monday’ like the clamoring chaos of a full waiting room and the scent of antiseptic mixed with the underlying note of doggy nervousness.

I adjusted my ID tag – Roxie, Vet Tech Extraordinaire – and hustled towards the fray. My paws tapped out a staccato rhythm on the linoleum as I passed through Dachshund Dale, the pediatric wing named for its pint-sized clientele and abundance of colorful chew toys.

My first patient was Marley – yes, loverboy Marley – wagging his tiny tail nervously upon the examination table. Always a drama queen, today he presented with what we at the Fur Palace call a “Code Yellow”: a suspected swallowed toy. The X-ray proved it was just another false alarm, a fibrous buildup of allegiance from all the hearts he’d conquered and, apparently, eaten.

A quip bubbled up, “Marley, if charm were currency, you’d be coughing up diamond collars.” I winked at him, and he blushed under his brindle coat.

A clatter from the hallway announced a new case, and there stood Oliver, the orange tabby. Yes, my unusual amigo. In his mouth? A pine cone. My pine cone – the one from our yard. Clearly an act of feline passive-aggressiveness. I quickly stashed the cone under the desk with a mental note to chew him out later – in the most affectionate way, of course.

Then Jamie’s voice, sweet and worried, floated from the phone on speaker mode. “Roxie, how’s it going?” Jamie’s tones instantly triggered that loyalty strain in my DNA, propelling me to reply, “All under control here!”

Yet as I turned, it became evident that the universe had other plans. Luna marched toward me, her regal head low, exuding silent authority. “Roxie, Code Blue in Trauma One.” Translated: Emergency, stat!

We sprinted side by side through Spaniel Springs, scooting past the Canine Café where the smells of bacon begged my belly to ignore its duty. But there was no time for indulgence.

In trauma – a hush. Golden Grub’s finest delicacies couldn’t compare to the shock of seeing a familiar form on the table. There, limply sprawled, was my human’s cherished slipper – Jamie’s slipper. A victim of a chew-and-run, a casualty of overzealous play.

I scrubbed up swiftly, my mind racing faster than my paws earlier. Jamie would be heartbroken if we couldn’t fix this. The surgery was delicate, the silence intense, broken only by Luna’s stoic direction and the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. The slipper’s sole was in shreds, its fluff innards exposed – it was a disaster.

Hours blurred as we stitched, bandaged, and whispered encouraging dog-latinisms to the ailing slipper. Finally, with a snip of the suture, we were done. I looked at my handiwork, pride mixed with the fear of an uncertain recovery. Would the slipper waggle again?

Recovery was agonizingly slow, but sure. The slipper would walk yet another day, albeit with a limp.

I closed the chart with a sigh, the day’s adventures trickling down with the adrenaline. “This place,” I thought, “it’s where you find out if you have the stomach for the game, or if you’re just chasing your tail.”

I watched the painted twilight from the window of Shiba Inlet, the slipper safe in the recovery room. Another day, another bark. But this – this was home, and every tail told a tale.

The End.

Share This Story: