Hey Mom,

You won’t believe my latest caper. By day I’m your snuggle pup, but by night, I transform into Dr. Goodest Boi, rescuing furry friends in Pawsburgh! Just saved a Golden from a bath-time blowout. Tell Dad I’m bringing new meaning to ‘Good boy!’

Catch you after my next shift,
Boo Boo Puppy 🐾

Ever notice the way your human looks at you with those expecting eyes, as if you’ve got something magical to tell? Well, I do have such tales. It’s me, Buster, Yorkshire Terrier. I may spend my days summoned by your tender calls of “Good boy,” but nights? Ah, nights are for Pawsburgh.

Under the silver caress of moonlight filtered through my bedroom window, the call of Pawsburgh beckons. A leap, a calculated scurry, and I’m away, past the silent sentries of human habitation, to a realm unknown to them. The wind whispers of escapades as I dash to my clandestine world.

Eskimo Estuary lies tranquil as I dart across, barely disturbing the glassy water – a mirror to the constellations above. But pause I cannot, for my destination today isn’t the estuary’s embrace. They need me up at Malamute Mountain, the heartstrings tighten at the thought. Harvey, a St. Bernard with a nurse’s cap askew, told me we’ve got a pup in a pickle, and time isn’t a luxury we own.

Malamute Mountain looms, an imposing silhouette rising into the starry Pawsburgh sky, the silhouette of my hospital home. As an auspicious breeze flutters through my blue-streaked fur, I’m the epitome of dogged determination; they call me Doctor Goodest Boi here. With each bound upward, memories surface — the first time I impressed them with my impeccable sense of steak-scent diagnosis and my intolerance for bananas, which turns out is shared by several canine patients I’ve treated.

The doors sweep open, and the drama of this veterinary hospital envelops me. Baxter the Boxer, the anesthesiologist, throws me a knowing glance. His bark’s meticulous as it travels across the bustle to reach my ears, “Whatcha got, Buster?”

I bark back as clearly as a heart’s rhythm on the monitors, “Pup with the suds, Bax. Real bad.” No more words; we’re a team knitted by emergencies, our expertise a dance choreographed by countless crises.

I’m at her side in moments. A gorgeous Golden, her coat more golden than the sun’s promise, but now dulled by soap and sadness. Her eyes meet mine, filled with the horror of bath-time gone awry. “Doctor?” She whispers, though a whisper in Pawsburgh is a growl anywhere else.

I nod, “I’m here, furiend. Let’s get you stabilized.” My skilled paws work deftly with the saline rinse, ensuring every soap bubble is neutralized, my bedside manner smooth as the silkiest of ear rubs. With each passing second, her sparkle returns, our chorus of heartbeats a symphony within the four walls of stainless steel and hope.

Discharge is my favorite word, and today it rings like a bell of victory. “Don’t worry, little one,” I tell her, watching her tail resume its wag, “there’s a steak with your name on it at Chowhound’s Chophouse.” Laughter, if dogs could laugh, trickles through the ward.

With the first light of dawn streaking the sky, I return home, mission accomplished. My heart surges with pride, curled beneath the sheets, I impart my nocturnal heroics to Daddy in dreams. “Buster’s such a good boy,” he says upon waking. Little does he know, at Pawsburgh Veterinary, good is just our starting point.

The dreams I have, ah, they’re quite something. The very fabric of Pawsburgh dances in my dozing musings — Puppy Patisserie carbs for the mind and soul, The Tail Wagger’s Tailor for those stressful workday tears. My Pawsburgh, where steak and survival meet in stories best told in barks and pants, not whispers. Here, in the refuge of fur and camaraderie, I am more than just Buster. I am Doctor Goodest Boi, and my tales are not just mine, but the heartbeat of Pawsburgh itself.

The End.