Hey Mom,

Just checked in to the spiritual doggy daycare Pawsburgh! I’m getting a pawdicure, critiquing hydrant art, and even chomping on celestial canned food. Willa’s here too, keeping my chaotic spirit in check. I’m on a quest to be the best good girl in the after-bark, and loving every sniff of it. Miss you and my sunny spot, but I’m wagging my tail to eternity’s adventures!

Licks and wags,
Jazzy 🐾✨

Right, so there we were, in Pawsburgh, a tail-waggling Twilight Zone for the four-legged, and yours truly, Jasmine. I have to say, looking down from the Great Dog Park in the Sky, it’s a spectacle that’s as much feast for the eyes as canned food is for my growling stomach.

I caught wind of this place on a gust from Setter Shore, on one of those days when the sun sank down like a golden retriever tossing in his towel after an epic game of fetch. Turns out, Whippet Way and Kelpie Keys weren’t just figments of fancy spun by my buddy Willa during one of our backyard brainstorms.

The day I chased my last squeaky toy and burrowed deep into the big warm blanket in the sky, I woke up here, tasked with becoming a better pet in my afterlife. A celestial report card, if you will, graded on a curve, naturally, since it’s tough to teach old dogs new tricks.

My independence is legendary among my peers, but let’s just say, I wasn’t quite ready for the cosmic no-leash area that is Pawsburgh. My first stop was the Woof and Whisker Wellness Center. Imagine a spa, but with more sniffing and only a marginal interest in personal space. They say self-improvement starts with self-care—I figured a little pawdicure wouldn’t hurt.

Next on the list was enhancing my intellect. The Furry Friends Art Gallery had treats so fine, even cats would pause their scheming to take a gander. I proved an excellent critic—my favorite piece was a tasteful representation of a fire hydrant in abstract expressionism. It smelled vaguely of magnificence, and the less said about my impulse to critique with my signature dog spray, the better.

I popped by Pom’s Pies for a slice of doggie heaven—but, to my dismay, found that they were serving kibble quiche! Well, you know what they say about old dogs and new diets—except up here, if you turn up your nose at kibble, you practically feel the ghostly doom of a thousand disapproving tail-thumps.

And just when I was considering the virtues of solitude, Willa, ever the yin to my zoomie yang, pawed her way into this narrative. Willa is to steadiness what I am to chaotic, playful leaps—she could sit and ponder the meaning of life, while I’d sooner chase it if it moved quickly and squeaked. Willa shepherded me to Sniffer’s Sandwiches for a more palatable bite—canned food, hallelujah!

“We’re here to get better, Jazz,” she said, chomping on her turkey triple-decker.

“Becoming better? I was practically an angel in the mortal realm! Well, an angel prone to chasing cats and loathing the ear-clean. But who’s perfect?”

“You once barked at your own tail for an hour,” she reminded me, with a bone-dry tone that could rival any late night show’s monologue.

“Creative expression,” I retorted.

The sun began to wane, casting shadows on the blissful beaches of Setter Shore. I missed the warmth of the familiar patch of sunlight on my earthly domain, the reassurance of that squeaky toy nearby.

Willa nudged me tenderly, her wise lab-mix eyes saying without words: This is your backyard now. Make it your kingdom.

True, I was never keen on swimming, but in Pawsburgh, I’d learn to navigate these uncharted waters and possibly, just possibly, become the good pet I’d always doggy-dreamed I could be.

The thing about afterlife—there’s always time for another game, another lesson, another nap under a celestial blankie. Here, every bark echoes with the chance to be better, and for a little fawn Chihuahua named Jasmine, I’d say that prospect is waggishly exhilarating.

The End.

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