Hey Mom,

Just a heads-up from beyond the rainbow: your sweet boy Henry is on a quest to better himself in Spencerville, but it turns out I’m already a pretty good dog. Swapped philosophy for joy in the simple things—it’s all about the chicken tacos and leaf-chasing. Who knew afterlife self-improvement was so fun? Keep an eye on the sky; I think I’m about to catch a cloud.

Catch you later,
Buhbuh 🐾✨

Ever have one of those days in the afterlife where you wake up in your dog bed, stretch your legs, and think to yourself, “I could really go for a character arc today”? Of course, you haven’t—because you’re not me and this isn’t Spencerville, the place where good dogs go to… well, not exactly improve, since we’re already the epitome of perfection, but let’s say, “chase our tails with purpose.”

Here I am, Henry—the dapper, black and white fur-coated gent with a long tail and eyebrows that can convey anything from deep existential angst to an insatiable hunger for chicken. So, on this particular Spencerville morning, as the sun cast a golden sheen over the Southern Golden Retriever River, I decided it was high time to embark on a self-improvement quest.

Before we dive into that tail – I mean tale, I suppose a small confession is in order. In the mortal realm, I might’ve committed a canine faux pas or two. Perhaps I dug a hole too many in the garden or indulged in an unsolicited game of tug-of-war with a pair of underwear. But here, in the great beyond, I was resolved to be the best version of my afterlife self.

My day began as any other, with a leisurely stroll down to Pooched Potatoes for some breakfast mash, but today, with an extra side of purpose. Leaf-chasing was on schedule, but now with a sense of refinement; it would be a ballet rather than a romp, a disciplined art rather than… Oh, who am I kidding? I pounced and frolicked like a wild thing because, heavens, it was invigorating!

Post prance, I had a coffee at The Fetching Deli, and during my sips, I ruminated on the vast wisdom I would soon amass. I’d start at The Pawfect Training Center, renowned for its enrichment classes. Perhaps I’d learn to paint or finally figure out how to fit two tennis balls in my mouth at once.

Amber bounded up mid-thought, her tail a propeller of good intentions. “Going for a philosophy class, Henry?” she asked with a knowing grin.

“I might,” I replied, with a nonchalance I didn’t quite feel. “After all, even in the afterlife, one mustn’t stagnate.”

Our discussion on existential dogma was interrupted by the clang of the bell atop Northern Choco Chihuahua Castle—time for the daily gathering at the Great Lawn, where dogs debated whether the mailman was friend or foe (a topic of hot contention).

I wasn’t one for public speaking—newly reformed or not—so while the others debated, I settled for a contemplative lope along the river. There, I encountered Max, all droopy ears and perpetual wisdom.

“Henry, you seem… preoccupied,” he noted.

“I’ve decided to become better,” I said, my tone firm, my resolve less so.

Max’s chuckle rumbled like a truck down a gravel path. “But Henry, you’re already a good dog.”

“Good, yes, but not great,” I protested.

Max nodded, seemingly in deep thought, then steered me toward Pup ‘n’ Go Taco Joint. “The best improvement is to enjoy each moment. Try that and see how you feel.”

Over chicken tacos (hold the citrus), I pondered Max’s words. The simplicity of it was almost infuriating. Here I was, attempting to fetch the unattainable stick of self-perfection when the joy I sought was in the savoring of each bite, the thrill of each leaf, and the companionship of friends like Amber and Max.

So, I continued my days in Spencerville much as before, but with a newfound appreciation for the beauty of the ordinary, the imperfectly perfect moments of afterlife bliss.

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but here in Spencerville, maybe you don’t need to. Maybe being a good dog is enough—especially when there are so many leaves yet to catch.

The End.