Hey Mom & Dad,

Just wrapped up another day filled with surgical finesse at Saint Rover’s – I’m basically the doggy version of a medical marvel. Managed to save the day (and my Pickle toy) with my trademark calm and Newfie charm. Princess Victoria sent her regards as we lunched post-op. Remind me later to share the ‘Pickle Heist’ story; it’s a whopper! Hope this text finds you wagging with pride.

Tail wags and nose boops,
Vincent (a.k.a. your Bear Cub) 🐾🩺💖

Listen to the story here

It was a peculiarly quiet morning in Spencerville, the kind that makes you suspect even the birds are up to something surreptitious, as I, Vincent, stood amid the hallowed halls of Saint Rover’s Veterinary Hospital. Not that celebrity ever intrigued me, but within these walls, I’m something of a legend – a black-and-white Newfoundland with freckles so charming, they could calm the most hysterical Chihuahua.

Our tale begins on what I assumed to be a perfectly ordinary day. But in Spencerville, a very nearly perfect place where entirely ordinary days are as rare as a cat that admits it’s wrong, I should have known better.

I promenaded into the operating room with due gravitas. After all, one must uphold their reputation, particularly so when wearing a stethoscope twice the size of your average terrier. There was an air of expectancy as I prepared to assist in a delicate procedure, a torn ligament repair on a high-strung Greyhound who believed he was an aspiring Olympian.

The hustle of furry bodies around me seemed nothing short of orchestrated chaos. Yet here, in the middle of it, I remained serene, a lighthouse of calm in a raging sea of medical madness. A tail-thumping Dalmatian nurse whizzed by, barking out updates, while a Poodle anesthetist sighed in French—a certain je ne sais quoi about her demeanor.

After concluding the successful operation, I scampered off to The Bone Appetit for a quick lunch rendezvous with Princess Victoria. Though not related by blood, Princess Victoria was the Saint Bernard that completed my canine soul. As I ambled in, tails were wagging and jowls aflutter with the dinnertime ‘gossip du jour’. I witnessed a salivating Bulldog eyeing my seaweed and salmon kibble with ill-concealed envy.

One could assume my postoperative afternoons might consist of lounging on a sunbathed patch of Maltese Meadow. But today was peculiar, remember? I soon discovered it was due to a missing Pickle – not a vegetable mind you, but my dearly beloved treat-dispensing toy. Someone had pilfered it from my locker, launching me into a detective escapade that Sherlock Bones would envy.

As I turned corners with a snout tracking the scent as old as my lineage, I marvelled at the myriad of establishments in Spencerville. Spa for Paws buzzed with the latest hairdos, whilst Fetch-N-Bites was filled with canine connoisseurs. The streets buzzed with an energy that almost made me forget my purpose.

But alas, I am a dog of duty. The Pickle, after all, symbolized more than treats; it was indicative of my past indulgences in kitchen-based mischief, the allure of overturning flour just to see the cloud it made – a joy unique to beings like us.

My quest came to a hiatus on the cobblestones of Bulldog Bay, where my audacious heart trembled with the profound rush of a car ride, sans car. There, amidst the cacophony of barks and meows, stood a forlorn looking Shih Tzu with a familiar object wedged between her paws. My Pickle!

With the decorum of an aristocrat and the deftness of a surgeon, I approached. A barter was proposed, a trade of a seemingly ordinary stick for my cherished toy. Evidently, the value of objects is entirely subjective in Spencerville.

And thus, my friends, the day concluded with my Pickle returned to its rightful place by my paws and companionship of the highest order by my side. For in Spencerville, possessions are negotiable, but bonds – those are eternal. Is this not a nearly perfect existence, while we await the ultimate reunion?

As I muse on these joys and the strange fact that rain makes mathematicians of us all (contemplating the probability of getting wet vs. the time it will take to shake off), I am reminded once again that life here, as elsewhere, is an adventure of everyday tales punctuated by love, loyalty, and a sprinkling of freckled charm.

The End.