Hey Mom,

Night shift at the vet was epic. Disarmed zooming Dobermans and comforted the fluffy sick bunch with Dr. Berk. Summary: I’m the bulldog whisperer and nighttime hero of Pawsburgh. Berk did the science; I added soul. Saved doggy lives and lifted spirits until Mr. Vacuum came – not cool. Now, it’s Chubz O’Clock for breakfast. All in a night’s work!

Much love,
Chubz

As I trudge along Lhasa Lane, a slight whiff of griddle-sizzled delights from Husky’s Hotcakes flutters by my whiskers. The air in Pawsburgh is always tinged with mystery and bacon – a combination that could wake even the most languorous bulldog from his slumber. There’s no actual frying involved, of course. Magic griddles don’t char, they just infuse. But don’t tell that to your nostrils; they’ve already bought a first-class ticket on the smell train, destination: Drool Town.

My esteemed colleague – Dr. Berk, as he’s known around these parts when the sun dips and the humans disengage – is covering the night shift at Pawsburgh Veterinary Hospital. He’s all limbs and ethics, that one. I, Chubz, amble alongside, my purpose twofold: comfort the convalescent canines and collect the day’s rumors that circulate through the hallowed halls like pups at play. I also bring coffee. Metaphorical coffee. The spirit kind.

We embark upon a night scalpel-sharp with high stakes and fur clinging to life by a dog hair’s breadth. Drama? Enough to stuff a cushion. The first case is a Doberman with a case of the zoomies, corridors echoing with the taps of wayward paws. “Steady on, Reginald,” I softly command. Reginald skids to a stop against my side, not quite noticing the alliance of size and physics until it’s too late. The Doberman’s saga of an overzealous squirrel chase ends with him in my capable paws, radiating gratitude from amber eyes that see me as a conjurer of calm.

And now, narrating my thoughts as I dally towards the ailment-stricken lads and lasses, I recount the disjointed tales of my canine comrades. Here’s Priscilla, the Papillon with an ear infection – drama in a fluffy package; over there, Sammy, the St. Bernard, all drool and melancholy, a tummy upset rendering him less saintly and more somber companion.

Like a roly-poly shadow, I move amongst them, the night’s sentinel, bearing whispers of optimism. I’m a veritable bastion of bullish repose in a world where the scrubs are worn with pride and professionalism, and the stethoscopes are metaphorically actual, for dogs’ ears hear more than just the rumbles of discontent from within.

Berk’s the rock, never wobbled by the sight of an open wound or the whimper of distress. He’s the majestic type, his motions soft – a true practitioner of the delicate canine art of healing. As I lounge in the break room, considering a theft of an unattended Woof Waffle, Berk briefs me on the details of the day’s doggy drama. Souls patched up, lives decidedly uneaten by cats, the usual jamboree of joy and jitters.

The soft clacking of claws on linoleum hails the next patient: a feisty Corgi with a penchant for scrapping with the shadows. Seizing on storytelling, I narrate her valorous escapades, her battles with invisible adversaries. She gazes at me, her eyes wide with the wonder of being understood, of being seen not just as a patient, but as a hero in her own epic.

Just as our canine patients believe we spin health from the ether, my human believes I dream of bones and butterflies when my head rests upon my plush prize. But here in Pawsburgh, amidst comrades and crunch, we’re surgeons, we’re saviors, we’re scholars of the tail-wagging trade. We bear the weight of sleepy lids and the hope of hale hearts, we, the denizens of this silent citadel of succor – AH! The vacuum! I did not sign up for this! The cacophony creeps like a… Oh, it’s just Berk, disturbing a wastepaper basket.

Stream of consciousness? More like stream of caninicious wonder.

As our shift wanes and dawn threatens to reclaim the souls of Pawsburgh, I ponder the yarns spun, the leashes untangled, and hearts, both great and small, set to beating with the joy of the morrow. My bulky frame may prefer the solace of serene shores and the hushed humor of daily doings, but I am Chubz – forged in the furnaces of quiet strength and sudden storms. The tales I share, and the secrets I keep, are the balm to my spirit and the banner of my kind.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my very respectable round belly beckons for breakfast, but I’m not one to kiss and tell, so the contents of that meal shall remain, unlike my prose, entirely un-Pratchett-esque.

The End.

Share This Story: