Hey Mom 👋,

Just a quick pawdate: I’ve been a pint-sized Florence Nightingale at the Pawsburgh vet today ‒ fixing fuzzy friends from near and far! Turns out, I have more hero in me than size, and my appetite for healing might just measure up to my love for treats! 😌 P.S. A certain Mr. Jerome K. Jerome would’ve been proud.

Hugs and head tilts,
Little Fish 🐟💕

If ever there was a tale to make tails wag, ’tis the one I’m about to unfold. A mechanical sun dawned over the illustrious Pawsburgh as I, Mattie, the Chihuahua with a spirit as robust as the mightiest Mastiff, found myself trotting along the cobblestones of Pearl Papillon Promenade. My ears twitched expectantly.

Jerome K. Jerome, whom I’ve never met, mind you, but whose manner of speech has seemingly influenced my internal monologue, once said, “The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.” Pawsburgh was my stage, and I would argue the casting was rather impeccable. Except perhaps for the curious case of the veterinary hospital—a drama-filled hub of wagging tales and whispered whimpers.

I was ecstatic, for today was no ordinary day. Today, I would step into the hallowed halls of the Pawsburgh veterinary as more than just a sprightly patient—today, I’d don the proverbial white coat and delve into the anatomies of my fellow canines as a healer, a comforter, a saviour of sorts.

“Gizmo!” I called out, spotting my Yorkie terrier companion, whose werewolf-like locks were distinctive even from afar.

“Mattie!” he exclaimed, dashing over. “Ready to become Pawsburgh’s most minute medical marvel?”

“Naturally,” I said, puffing up my small chest, “but first, sustenance!” Off we scampered, a blur of fur, to Tail-Twitching Treats, the bakery that baked goods so divine they could make a hound forsake the chase of a squirrel.

Fortified by a pastry or two (alright, maybe three), we hastened to the veterinary hospital where tales of torn teddies, ruffled fur, and mysterious itches unraveled like yarn in the paws of a particularly mischievous kitten.

“Nurse Mattie!” boomed Doctor Snuffles, a sagacious St. Bernard. “To the operating room, posthaste!”

Suitably dramatic, I wove through the corridors, my plush weenie dog toy secured under my forelimb for moral support. We entered the operating room, where a somber scene awaited. A trembling poodle lay before us, eyes wide with the quiet fear only a canine understands—a broken paw, it was.

“Laudanum?” suggested Gizmo, head cocked in an effort to appear scholarly.

“Nay, friend. Simply a cast and much rest,” I responded with the gravitas befitting a dog of my soon-to-be renown.

With the assistance of Doctor Snuffles, whose drool was copious yet surprisingly antiseptic, I applied a cast as delicate as my own petite paws, all the while whispering words of comfort. A lick here, a gentle nuzzle there—I was not just a nurse but a beacon of hope.

Time passed in a flurry of furry patients and heartrending yet ultimately heartwarming cases. Sunbathing on the serene banks of Briard Bridge receded from my thoughts, all notions of car rides paled in comparison to this work—a calling, indeed.

At good old Barking BBQ, after a long day of playing nurse, Gizmo and I reflected over a succulent slice of roast beef–the hospital’s drama behind us, relaxation ahead.

“Gizmo,” I mused, paws crossed beneath my chin, “If one were to say that size was indicative of valor, they’d not met a heart like ours. Would you not agree?”

“Indubitably,” he replied, mimicking my posture. “But I think they’d defer to your appetite as a closer measurement!”

We chuckled, for in the land of Pawsburgh, where dreams held the leash and reality fetched the slippers, even a three-and-a-half-pound Chihuahua could tower over adversity.

“With every setting of the sun,” I pondered aloud, “miracles dwell in the mundane, and our world, dear Gizmo, is as vast as our courage.”

I imagined Jerome, whoever he was, would have approved.

The End.