Hey Mom,

Just a heads up, I’ve been busy evolving from your average Princess Pooch to Pawsburgh’s philosopher of play! 😎 Embarked on an existential journey today, waffled down enlightenment for breakfast, and decided true nobility’s in teaching the little pups more than just chasing tails. Who knew the path to being The Best Good Boy could be so fulfilling? Also, I might’ve scheduled a doggy soul portrait—hold the celery.

Catch you at dinner for more tail-wagging tales!

Hazel 🐾✨

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Oh, pal. Picture this—it was an average Tuesday, skies in perfect alignment for an average day in Pawsburgh, where the hydrants never run dry and every lamp post has a story to tell. Now, I’m Hazel, and as I’m sure you’re aware, I was sculpted from the same clay as rambunctious rovers and devoted darlings. But folks, even a dog with a tail that spins like a merry-go-round can find himself… well, dog-tired of the same old sit-and-stay routine.

So there I was, sauntering along Bichon Boulevard, contemplating my existence. My exuberance? Legendary. My loyalty? Nonpareil. Yet, I pondered deeper pursuits. Could a Doodle with my gusto achieve enlightenment? Was it possible to perfect the art of being the Best Good Boy in the afterlife?

“Seize the frisbee of self-improvement,” I muttered, my musings interrupted by the whimsical wafts from Woof Waffles. My nose knows no bounds when whipped cream’s at stake. A quick stop—strictly for sustenance—and then, I’m off to Mastiff Meadows, a haven for every hound seeking transcendence, or at least a decent game of fetch.

Strutting purposefully past Eskimo Estuary, the water serenely lapping the shores, dappled sunlight through the leaves gave way to The Pampered Pooch Salon. Reflection is key, they say, so I popped in front of the mirror to look at myself. Literally and philosophically. Gaze upon my blond tousles, and you’ll see the embodiment of playful canine charm. “Who’s a good boy?” they coo. Depth, I crave it!

Committing to betterment, I found myself at Best in Show Photography, pondering whether a photo might capture my metaphysical journey. “Capture my soul, but kindly photoshop my fear of celery,” I quipped to the Pomeranian behind the camera.

As I tiptoed past The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium (Yes, we have cats in Pawsburgh, the brass at City Hall insist diverse ecosystems are the key to social progress), a moment of Nirvana struck me—there, amongst the glimmering collars and squeaky toys: selflessness.

Sure, I revel in a sunbeam’s embrace as much as the next mutt, and the park may be my claimed kingdom, but true nobility lies not in territory, but in charity. Suddenly, my daily antics with Maple and Tucker, those tug-of-war tournaments, they seemed to possess a deeper meaning. Perhaps my chums were not just companions in crime, but fellow pilgrims on the path to canine wisdom?

And so it came to pass that I devoted my afternoons to teaching the pups of Pawsburgh the fine art of play—with responsibility! A hard sell, mind you; my theoretical musings were often drowned out by the rambunctious yips and yaps of youth.

Evening fell upon Pawsburgh, the sun throwing magnificent hues like a painter in a frenzy. A final sojourn to Whippet Wraps for a savory, lightly-seasoned supper, and I indulged in a moment of reverie. Delight, though vital, was inconsequential compared to the joy of sharing it. And bath time? A mere prelude to cuddles. The vet’s office, that chamber of ominous needles? A temporary backdrop to my mom’s reassuring embrace.

Lying there, chomping at my wrap, nostalgia welled up. My heart, a tapestry woven with threads of thrill and threads of reluctance, was now also streaked with a fresh pattern: the pursuit of goodness, of being a thoroughly Well-rounded Good Boy. Yes—even in solitude, the echo of Hazel’s zest hummed through Pawsburgh’s moonlit streets. And like the softly fading whistle of my human’s call, the thought lingered: perhaps this was my shooting star moment in a vast, doggy universe.

The End.

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