Hey Mom,

You won’t believe this, but your Rump Roast is out here living the dream in Pawsburgh. My days are spent wrestling with the concept of being a ‘Good Boy’—literally tugging my way to enlightenment. Just traded tire-wars for banana heists at Hound’s Hotdogs (don’t judge me) and resisting the siren call of Woofy Bakery’s biscuits. I’m earning spiritual stripes, one wag at a time, and maybe, just maybe, banking points for a halo while savoring every pup-tastic moment with my furry pals. Paws crossed!

Licks and wags,
Tozer 🐾👑

One might assume, if a dog ever pondered the afterlife, he’d picture endless fields to frolic in and an inexhaustible supply of chew toys. Perhaps I’m more of a realist—or an idealist, depending on how one looks at it. But Pawsburgh, it turns out, is where my wonderful scruff of a life intended to lead me all along.

I’m Tozer, by the way—English Bulldog, part-time philosopher, full-time charmer. There’s a dot on my head, a crown if I may say so myself, which blatantly signifies my regality amongst these magical alleys and dog-friendly diners. Today, like every day since my spirited arrival at Rottweiler Ridge, I set out to improve my cosmic canine karma.

“Just one tug-of-war victory,” I reasoned with myself, tail swishing thoughtfully, “and I’ll graciously allow Duchess to chase me unchecked down Whippet Way. That should count for something on the ‘Good Boy’ scale, right?”

My Tonka tire tug toy in mouth, I head to Pinscher Plaza, where the playful specter of companionship awaits in the form of Duchess and Sarge. The Great Dane gazes at me with amber eyes that question if I’m any closer to earning my halo. Sarge snorts, indifferent to such existential concerns, deeply embedded in his bulldog ways.

You see, here in Pawsburgh, we’re on a quest to be better than we were in our previous lives with our humans, sniffing our way to enlightenment one paw print at a time. Duchess, she’s trying to overcome a habit of hoarding toys. And Sarge, well, let’s just say he’s working on not drooling on politically important documents—a rather specific vice.

“N-n-n-no, Tozer,” I practice under my breath, a mantra against the temptation of another tire-tug championship. But at Hound’s Hotdogs, led by the waft of savory scents, I meet my match in the form of bananas. Bananas at a hotdog stand, of all places! Surreptitiously snatching one, I declare it a necessary derailment.

“Goodness, old chap, a tad undignified, aren’t we?” Duchess teases, though she devours her own share of unbought treats with gusto.

“Indulgence calls!” I bark back in defense, the taste of the sweet banana fostering a hint of guilt for the petty theft. The Good Place forgives, right?

Later, at The Woofy Bakery, Sarge and I are tempted by the allure of freshly baked biscuits. It’s my idea to resist, I should add—improvement is a shared burden, after all.

As the day fades into twilight, I ponder the progress of my character in this celestial canine commotion. At Retriever’s Restaurant, I offer my seat to an elder Beagle with an ambling gait and wise, spectacled eyes. If that doesn’t earn me a point or two…

Duchess nods approvingly, as we sit beneath the twinkling lights of Pawsburgh square. Collective conquests of the day bring us closer to whatever haloed haven awaits us beyond these quaint streets.

Still, as we listen to the old Beagle spin tales of his youthful ventures, I remember that our journey here isn’t just about accruing ‘Good Boy’ points. It’s about savoring each shared adventure, the joy found in the ties that bind us, and the quiet commitment to be better than the day before. And, with friends like these by my side, I reckon I’m well on my way.

The End.