Hey Dad,

Pawsburgh was a ghost town today, not a creature stirring. Made me miss the good old days, y’know? I walked around, trying my best to sniff out any familiar scents or spot a wagging tail. Finally, guess what? Spotted Bella and Tank at Canine Couture! Bella even had my rubber hot dog toy. And then… fireworks. Silly, cool, silent ones. Nothing like the big, bad, loud ones. Looks like we’ve got some reclaiming to do, but we’re ready. Anyone would say ‘ruff’ times are ahead, but with these pals, I’m not worried.

Woof and out,
Bulldozer aka Squishyface.

The moment I poke my fat, wrinkled face out of the Rabbit Hole, my entrance to Pawsburgh, I know it’s all gone to the dogs–literally. The streets are empty, shop signs creaking in the silent wind. Siberian Summit is as vacant as a doghouse in the rain, and Chihuahua Castle, usually a cacophony of joy and ear-splitting yapping, is nothing but an echo.

“Where the doggone everyone go?” I murmur to myself, my chunky frame shuddering in the cold breeze.

With a sigh and a worried twitch of my short tail, I begin my journey through the desolate Pawsburgh. I stop by Pup-Tastic Pizza, peek through Ruff-n-Ready, and even sniff at the door of Bone Appetit. Not a soul around–and, worse, not a morsel of chicken in sight.

I shrug, lumbering towards The Wagging Tail Bookstore. I’m no avid reader. But I’m up for anything that makes me forget the Godforsaken emptiness around me. They have a copy of “From Squeaky Toys to Guts: A Dog’s Tale” that I have been curious about. Still, it doesn’t suffice; there’s a hole gnawing at me, and it ain’t hunger. I miss my friends. The sound of Bella’s tiny but mighty bark. The pat of Tank’s tail against the hard ground. The feeling of home.

Almost out of hope, I spot Canine Couture Clothing in the distance. A light is on; the soft, warm glow illuminates the lifeless town. My heart lurches. The scent of joyful memories–days of silly fashion parades, belly laughs, and goof-offs with my friends fills the air. The store’s always been Bella’s favorite. Could it be…?

I sprint towards it and nearly cry out when I see them, Bella, small and fierce, and Tank, a loyal companion with his golden fur. They stick together, just like old times.

“Bella, Bella, Bella!” I squeak, pawing at the glass. At the sight of her chubby, wrinkly friend; she barks delightedly. The echoes fill the desolate streets, announcing the return of life. Tank wiggles over, and we press our noses against the glass, a reunion separated by a mere sheet of glass.

That’s when I see it. In Bella’s paws, a squeaky rubber hot dog toy, a dead ringer for my precious toy. How did she get that? But then she tosses it into the air, and it comes down with a soft bouquet of familiar lights. Fireworks, tiny and silent, like visual music notes in the air.

For once, they don’t scare me. They’re not the thunderous, heart-stopping booms I loathe. They’re an apology and a forgiveness intertwined, a promise that we’re still together, even when the world has changed, and most importantly, a beacon for lost dogs, a call to come back home.

And so, despite the bleak surroundings, I finish my day with a renewed sense of hope. It turns out, even in the face of dog-tastrophe, Pawsburgh is still home–– we’ll just have to make it more ‘us’ again, and that part isn’t so hard when I have Bella and Tank by my side.

The End.