Hey Mom,

Had a hero’s day at work — think of it as Grey’s Anatomy on four legs. Saved a pup in a tail-spinning emergency and nailed the whole “compassionate vet” act. Really earning my kibble around here! Missing your cedar-lav scent, but Spencerville’s drama keeps me on my paws. Hugs and face licks,

Clovis

As the sun arched over Spencerville, casting golden hues upon the idyll that is Maltese Meadow, I, Clovis, found myself awakening to the soft buzz of the world outside my window. It was an average day in what can only be described as an above-average existence. Since I’d become a resident in this curious dog town, where every whimper is heard and every tail’s tale is told, I had embraced my role at the bustling Spencerville Veterinary Hospital with an enthusiasm rivalled only by that of my evening mealtime.

I’m a bulldog of some renown here, particularly on the subject of the medical dramas that unfold each day within the walls of the establishment where I work. My colleagues and I, a menagerie of creatures whose past lives were as varied as the spots on a Dalmatian, find ourselves engaged in the noble pursuit of healing our kind.

This morning, as I trotted along the well-trodden path to the hospital, the briefest whiff of a scent—a mix of cedar and lavender—transported me to memories of my mom. My heart grew warm at the thought, but practical professionalism soon took the driver’s seat, as the day beckoned with a clear urgency.

Upon entering the hospital’s grand foyer, the mélange of smells hit my finely tuned senses—the antiseptic bite mingling with the musk of worried animals. I greeted Gilbert with a respectful nod; a fellow English Bulldog whose stolid loyalty to his patients is as noticeable as the unshakable wrinkles on our brows.

“Morning, Gilbert,” I barked, “or should I say Doctor Gilbert? How fares the ward this splendid day?”

“All stable, Clovis,” Gilbert replied, his jowls flapping slightly as he spoke. “Though I daresay, with our lot, one must always be prepared for the dramatic turnabouts of health.”

We exchanged understanding glances, as only those who have shared in the throb and thrust of life-and-death situations could. Clovis and Gilbert commenced their rounds, a sort of ritual performed with an ease brought about by countless repetitions.

Eagerly, I ambled through the corridors, tapping a courteous rhythm upon the linoleum with my nails. We visited the wards, where I offered a genial lick of consideration to the paw of a despondent Maltese who had just undergone a taxing surgery.

Suddenly, an urgent baying echoes through the halls – a cacophony disturbing enough to fluff the fur on any dog’s back. It was Biscuit, an overly dramatic Beagle with a penchant for theatrics, alerting the hospital populace of a dire emergency. This was no mere practice of his vocal chords; this was a genuine clarion call.

The hustle and bustle of clinicians around me signaled a gathering storm of activity. “Code Bow-wow,” they barked, and so, like knights unto the breach, we huddled, ready to stand paw-to-paw with our ailing comrade.

In rushed a mottled pup, her breaths shallow, her whimpers a mere whisper of the spirited bark she was known for. This was no time for gentle musing; this was action the likes of which stories are spun from.

We—all fur and fastidious fervor—worked under the medicinal glow of the operating lamps. Wires and tubes became our playful strings and sticks—our toys in this most grave of games. Time bent and twisted until at last, the pup’s breathing steadied, and her tail gave the faintest of wags. A success, I do declare!

As the day yawned into evening, and the sun prepared its bed beyond the sable horizon, I sat with Gilbert and our convalescing companion in the quietude that follows the fervor of life’s tempests. This, I muse, is the unfathomed depth of our existence—between the ticks and tocks, the moments where we simply… are.

I think of my mom, and though longing tugs at my brindle-patterned heart, I find peace in the promise of Spencerville—that one day, we shall kith and kin be rejoined.

So ends another day in our pet purgatory, this veterinarian’s opera of daily occurrences—a place where each wag, each whimper, composes the symphony of our melodious mundane, ever-waiting, ever-watching for that blessed reunion at the end of the long-walked road.

The End.