Hey Mom, just wrapped up another day being the chief of sass and scalpel at SVH! Saved Mr. Whiskerson from a squeaky menace, made tails wag, and drooled over steak tartare. Spencerville shines, but not as bright as my wait for you. Hugs and head tilts, your Sassafras 🐾✨

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“Alright people, listen up!” I bark authoritatively across the bustling lobby of Spencerville Veterinary Hospital, or SVH as we like to call it. Being the chief of surgery here isn’t just about flapping ears and wagging tails; it’s a dog-eat-dog world and it takes more than a cute snout to cut it. Luckily, I’ve got smarts and sass to match my name – which, in case you’ve been living under a kibble, is Sassy.

The thing is, this place isn’t just a hospital; it’s a haven. In this nearly perfect town of Spencerville, we get to live our best lives and that means keeping each other healthy and happy until we reunite with our humans. And between you and me, I run an operating room tighter than a cat’s grip on a fish bone.

My day begins with the sun, not because I have to, but because I want to. There’s something about the Spencerville air that just… tickles the nose right. After a brisk walk from my quaint little abode in the Lower Golden Gate Gardens, where roses smell sweeter and the grass actually listens when you tell it to stop growing, I arrive at SVH.

I scoot through double doors, paws padding on the pristine linoleum floors, my coat shimmering under fluorescent lights. Every pet turns to watch me pass. I’m not bragging – I’ve seen my reflection in the water bowls.

“Dr. Sassy!” a shy but eager voice rings out. It’s Muffin, the resident Maine Coon – think lavish fur and a demeanor so nervous she could unthread her own stitches with one quiver. “Mr. Whiskerson’s vitals are dropping! It seems serious.”

“On it,” I reply with a nod, pushing against the surgical bay doors. Time to scrub in. I wish I had thumbs for moments like this. But hey, I’ve got a surgical team for that.

In the operating room, everything is a dance – a beautifully choreographed tango of scalpels and sutures. I may be small, but on the table, I’m mighty. I maneuver with the precision only a Chihuahua-Min Pin mix can muster – that is until I hear the whimper.

It’s Mr. Whiskerson, the Bulldog. Big fella with a heart even bigger. He’s got the kind of face that looks like it’s been chasing parked cars. But he’s in pain, and that’s where the fun and games stop for me.

I glance at the x-ray. “Team, we’ve got a squeaky toy lodged in the duodenum,” I announce. A collective gasp echoes – squeaky toys are the silent menace of our kind, enticing and yet, so very treacherous.

Fifteen minutes of bated breath and expert maneuvers later, the task is done. Mr. Whiskerson is squeaky toy-free and on his way to full recovery. The team and I share a look of triumph; tails wag all around. This is why we do it – for moments like these, where every snip and stitch mean another day of tail chasing for our friends.

The rest of the day is a blur of lopsided grins and wagging tails – consults here, a game of fetch in the park there. The perks of being in Spencerville mean a lunch break at Bow Wow Bistro where the steak tartare is to drool for. Believe me, I caught my reflection in a passing spoon – the drool was real.

By the time dusk falls, curling up in my cozy corner sounds divine. But there’s no rest for the furry when you have a reputation for being top dog. And when you’re as fiercely devoted as I am, leaving the hospital behind feels like leaving a piece of you in the OR.

The stars twinkle above, reminding me of distant city lights, and of the human I’m waiting for. My mom. Just thinking about her makes my heart thump like a tail on linoleum. But until then, Spencerville is my stage and SVH my theatre.

“Tomorrow’s another day,” I tell my reflection in the polished bowl before turning in. “And you, Sassy, are going to save lives in style, one paw at a time.”

The End.

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