Hey there, it’s Dammitt reporting from Pawsburg, the mythical doggie-world in the beyond. Despite being smaller than most here, my adventures have just grown bigger. On the menu at Paws on the Grill, roast chicken wins, and the orange fruit still loses. P.S: The afterlife is ‘pawfect’, but missing you. Keep my squeaky mouse warm, will ya? – Dammitt, the Daredevil.

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Before Dammitt’s sudden banishment to the great beyond, I always thought Pawsburg was a myth, a tall tale the dogs would make up just to kill time when the humans were away. Now, here I am, Dammitt’s old human, trying to navigate this fabled doggie world that smells like an unrequited love affair between a bone and gravy.

Dammitt, oh Dammitt, that tiny bundle of furball that was never too far away from the squeaky mouse. One second, she was chasing her favorite plush toy around the porch and the next – she was gone. An accident, they said. I knew her to be daring, but who knew her daredevils days would see such a sudden end?

I found myself standing on the threshold of Pawsburg, thinking how would Dammitt survive in this enormous world built for creatures twice her size. But then, Dammitt never did let her size limit her spirit, in life or beyond.

My first stop, naturally, was the restaurant Paws On The Grill. The joint was packed with Dammitt’s fellow canine citizens slurping Bowwow Broth, their wagging tails creating a soft breeze. “Roast chicken,” I told the eager St. Bernard who was doubling as a waiter, and he returned with a plate so sumptuous even I, a human, was tempted.

As I made my way to Golden Gate Gardens, carrying the plate of chicken in hope to find Dammitt, I noticed the unimaginable assembling. From a Westie perusing a couture coat in The Tail Wagger’s Tailor to a squad of Dalmatians frolicking in the recreated desert landscape; the place was bustling with spirited dogs, each enjoying a life they left behind.

Finally, there she was, nestled under the birch trees, mirroring the time we used to spend in our world. Dammitt, enduring in her afterlife just as she did in ours. She was still the same, playing with her squeaky mouse, the same stubborn glint in her eyes as she refused the slice of orange I offered her. She didn’t care for the doorbell that rang for the doggie ice cream van, a gut instinct from her old home, I suppose.

As she finished the roasted chicken, she was joined by familiar faces. Max, the German shepherd, and Whiskers, the reticent tabby cat. As I watched them chatter away, Dammitt being a ball of energy, I realized every well-spent, amusing, and unpredictable day with her was far from over.

Oh, death, you really are a rascal, aren’t you? But what you forgot was that Dammitt packed more life in her pint-sized, brave heart than death could ever take away. As I watched her living her afterlife, I understood Pawsburg was more than just canine folklore, it was a place of second chances, a place where a tiny dog could continue with her doggone big adventures.

The End.