Hey Mom,

Just another day saving Rudy’s ball from the dreaded deep at Setter Shore. My inner surgeon did some aquatic heroics, and the Pawsburg Pals upheld our oath to retrieve. Who knew your little Skids could turn a crisis into a tail-wagging triumph? Paws and reflect on that!

Licks and wags,
Skittles 🐾😉

As the sun peeked through the curtains of my cozy little nook, I, Skittles, stretched out my tan and white limbs, feeling every fiber awaken. Today wasn’t going to be like any other day in Pawsburgh; I could taste the anticipation in the air, the kind you’d find rich and tangy atop a slice from Pawprint Pizzeria.

I trotted out to the backyard, my kingdom where I survey my subjects—birds, squirrels, and the occasional butterfly. With the dignified air of someone about to perform surgery at the Woof and Whisker Wellness Center, I conducted my morning business. “Scalpel,” I said under my breath, an inside joke between me and the dew-kissed grass, because, in a way, this was my operating room.

My stomach told me it was time to eat. As a food lover, I consider myself the culinary connoisseur of our bark brigade, with no offense to Beagle Bagels or Retriever’s Restaurant—their ambience is fantastic but lacks a certain haute cuisine.

With hunger gnawing at my belly, I made my way to Mastiff Meadows. I’d heard stories—whispers really—of a secret garden where the cheese grew on trees and chicken paraded on the ground, begging to be chased. I salivated at the thought.

“Dr. Skittles!” I heard someone yelp. My ears perked up. It was Tucker, galloping over like he had a medical emergency, which in Pawsburgh often meant an unpopped tennis ball or a lost chew toy under someone’s porch.

“I need your help! It’s Rudy,” Tucker panted, his usual energy cranked up to a thousand.

I had to focus, be the steady hand in the crisis. “Take a breath, Dr. Tucker. Tell me the symptoms,” I demanded, in my best attending physician tone that I’d picked up watching our humans. Yes, in Pawsburgh, we have TVs; how do you think we polish our dramatic chops?

“He’s on Setter Shore, not moving, just staring at the water!” Tucker barked.

I didn’t hesitate. Rudy might need a Jack Chi’s (and self-declared veterinarian’s) wit and whimsy. We sprinted faster than delivery vans we didn’t bark at—because let’s be frank, what dignified surgeon chases a mail truck?

When we arrived, there was Rudy, frozen by the water’s edge. “Dr. Rudy, report!” I called.

Rudy turned, his expression so grave you’d think he was about to diagnose a severe case of heartworms. “I can’t find it, Dr. Skittles,” he muttered. “My ball—it just rolled into the sea.”

We stood in a somber line, the gravity of the situation pulling us down. We weren’t just any dogs; we were the Pawsburg Pals, a team united under friendship and the solemn oath to retrieve.

“Okay, team,” I declared, “this is what we’ve trained for.” In truth, we had never trained for it, but a little dramatic flair never hurt. “Dr. Tucker, search the perimeter. Dr. Rudy, you’re on lookout. And I…” I raised my paw dramatically, to the skies, channeling the spirit of every great TV doctor ever, “will save your ball.”

Lunging into the water, my determination grew. I swam like a dog with a purpose—a dog who didn’t especially love swimming but did it out of pure love for a friend’s favorite toy.

Moments later, with the ball secure between my teeth, I emerged like a triumphant sea-creature hero, complete with slow-motion shake-off as I reached the shore.

“Dr. Skittles, you did it!” Tucker cheered, lifting my spirits higher than a squirrel in a tree.

“I didn’t do it alone,” I said, beaming with pride. “We did it because that’s what the Pawsburg Pals are all about.”

As the sun began to set on Setter Shore, casting golden hues over our little utopia, I thought about the day’s adventure. It wasn’t just about the thrill of the chase—it was about friends, loyalty, and heroics at their finest.

These are the days of our lives in Pawsburgh, a town for dogs with tales more fetching than any stick or squeaky toy. And me, I’m just your average Jack Chi—part-time backyard monarch, part-time surgical virtuoso, full-time best friend.

The End.