Hey Dad,

Just a heads-up from the great beyond, Pawsburgh is real, and it’s where good dogs go to get better! Fought the cheese urge, didn’t splatter any pooches at the salon, and even helped kittens cross the street without going into chase mode. Yep, this old Bubba’s learning new tricks. Wish me luck!

Hank 🐾🧀🚫

Listen to the story here

So, it goes like this.

Another day, another adventure, but this one isn’t any old tail-chaser. Today, I, Hank the heart-sized Pitbull, wake up in Pawsburgh— not just Pawsburgh, but the afterlife version. Because in the universe’s infinite jest, even dogs get a shot at self-improvement after the final nap.

I lick my chops—it always starts with the scent of cheese. Cheddar, to be exact. It wafts from the direction of Bark-n-Bite Bistro, a joint with grub so good it’d make any Saint Bernard a sinner for a bite. But let’s not digress about divine doggy dining.

Look, here’s Baxter, waving a friendly tail my way. “Off to better yourself again, Hank?” he howls in his Beagle-typical timbre.

“That’s the plan,” I reply, grappling with the idea of self-betterment while cheese is on my mind.

It’s understood here that to graduate from good to great in the spectral sense, one must perform acts as pure as a puppy’s heart. Not so simple with cheese around to cloud one’s canine judgement.

Today’s mission, should I choose to chew it, involves controlling my more… primal urges. No mud rolling at Diamond Doberman Dunes. No jumping onto the counter at Mastiff’s Meals. And most especially, refraining from a frolic through the Weimaraner Woods chasing anything that moves.

Rosie joins us, her Retriever optimism shining brighter than her golden coat. “Morning, Hank! Working on not gobbling up someone else’s frisbee today?”

“Something like that,” I admit, my tail flagging in joyous complicity. She’s one to talk though; her love for anything that flies is the stuff of legend in Pawsburgh.

Max sidles up, his Shepherd gaze more calculating than a cat contemplating curtains. “Steady there, Hank,” he lectures. “Remember what you’re here for.”

“How could I forget with you around, Max?” I retort. The thing about trying to be a better dog is you need friends to keep your leash tight.

I make it through the morning, past the Pampered Pooch Salon without leaving a single drenched patron in my wake—improvement, they say.

Afternoon swings in with the promise of lessons learned. Mr. Tug is with me, of course. Can’t have a protagonist without his trusted sidekick, no matter how slobbery and chewed up he is.

“Ah, Hank. Working on your Tug-of-Peace?” jokes Baxter, au fait with my ancient battle past.

“I am,” I say, taking a calm stance, the mythical leash of self-restraint holding firm.

I even escort a few kittens—I know, right?—across the town square without a hint of chase. Cats, man’s worst friend and dog’s practice for patience.

Reaching Bark-n-Bite Bistro, the cheddar hits me like a freight train of temptation. But no—it’s self-control I’m here for; the cheese will have to wait for another life.

Now we sit at a table, Baxter, Rosie, Max, and me; a doggone pantheon of progress.

“So, what do you think, guys? Am I better yet?” I ask them, earnest as a puppy awaiting approval.

“You haven’t chased a single tail today, Hank,” Max confirms with a nod.

“And not one unplanned hole dug!” Rosie adds.

“And you got through the day without slathering all over the kittens.” Baxter chuckles.

I smile, a Pitbull satisfied. Just goes to show, even on the other side of the leash, there’s space for an old dog to learn new tricks. So it goes.

The End.