Hey Dad,

Just wrapped another day as Pawsburgh’s detox & detective bulldog. Saved Lilly from her treat binge, then sniffed out a stolen stash of chow under Briard Bridge. I’m basically Sherlock with a wagging tail. Catch you at sunset for snuggles!

Cheers, Growlbert 🐾🔎

At the first light of dawn, just when the city of Pawsburgh yawned and stretched its streets, I, Albert the Excellent English Bulldog, bestowed my first snore upon the waking hour. My adventures within the borders of this magical canine utopia are the stuff of legend, whispered in every burrow and bark, and today was to be no different.

You see, Pawsburgh Veterinary Hospital was in quite the uproar, and not your garden-variety, cat-chasing uproar. No, this was a drama that could have been plucked straight from a soap opera—if dogs cared for such human frivolities.

“Albert, old chap, you’re up!” Baker greeted me with his Oklahoman drawl that always seemed to curl his jowls into a smile.

“Quite so. What’s the calamity this time, Baker?” I replied, my words as slow and ponderous as my steps.

“It’s Lilly, in a spot of bother again,” he said. And that’s all it took. Lilly, with her irresistibly comic waddle and eyes like marbles, had landed herself on this day’s script of our veterinary soap opera.

We trotted past Spitz Spire, a tower that soared above us, reaching for skies freckled with white clouds. The air was cool from nights without the sun’s burning gaze, the scents of a hundred breeds mingling. Shiba Inlet beckoned, but it would have to wait. Lilly needed me.

The scene at Pawsburgh Veterinary Hospital was pure Bedlam wrapped in a blanket of barks. Lil Rosie was already there, her grunts punctuating the air like mischievous commas. “Hurry, Albert! They need your calm.”

I waddled into the fray with the same grace and urgency one applies when approaching a well-seared steak—grandly, wholeheartedly, without reservation.

Lilly had overindulged in treats at Pup’s Paella, her belly swollen as much by paella as by regret. “Albert!” she wheezed as I approached, a bead of sweat glistening on her brow as if it too, were worried.

“There, there,” I comforted her with a pat of my paw. “We Bulldogs are built sturdy but not invincible. A lesson learned, I surmise?”

Her nod was sheepish, her burp, apologetic. Little did we all know that our day was about to take another turn befitting our Picaresque tale—a spell of mystery and farce, as a case of missing treats unfolded.

Indeed, the culinary treasures of Chowhound’s Chophouse had vanished! Suspicion hung in the air, thicker than the aroma of steak that usually wafted from the establishment.

With a furrowed brow and the sun shining upon my back, I took it upon myself to resolve this baffling enigma. The trail led to the illustrious Briard Bridge, underneath which we discovered a stash of treats and trinkets, including—of all things—a certain spoon of vanilla ice cream, unravaged by time or tongue.

“Holmes has nothing on you, Albert!” laughed Lil Rosie, her voice carrying the weight of respect and mirth.

I took it in stride. We returned the treats, and peace was restored to Pawsburgh. Lilly was back on her paws, Baker regaled us with exaggerated tales of his own heroics, and Lil Rosie… well, she plotted our next caper with a twinkle in her eye.

As I returned to my sunny spot, mulling over the day’s events while caressing Grogu’s soft ears, I thought about the narratives we spin in this dog-eared book of life. Pawsburgh—its vet hospital dramas, its flavor-filled escapades, its bridges bearing secrets—and how, despite my aversion to loud noises and feline creatures, it’s a place where my heart truly resides, forever engaged in the most delightful of ruckuses.

And so, with a final wag of my tail, I closed my eyes, a smile gracing my jowls, content in the knowledge that tomorrow promised yet another adventure.

The End.