“Hey Dad! It’s Perce. Just a quick update from Apocalypse-Chic Spencerville. Running the town here, dining in yappy gourmet cafes, splashing at the bay, leading a canine fashion revolution, battling with evil vacuums, dodging the vet and campaigning against the disturbing lack of chew-toys. Life’s ruff at the end of the world! You know, just another day in the tail-wagging life of yours truly. Love to all. – Perce”

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In the contemplative tranquillity of Spencerville, life post-apocalypse seems a little less apocalyptic. You know that whole thing about the planet smouldering into a behemoth of molten goo? Lucky for us, Spencerville had a penchant for bucking trends, opting instead to be a refuge for post-apocalyptic humans – and their pets. I say ‘us’ but I mostly mean me and Percy.

Ah, Percy, ever the ruggedly handsome lad, sweeping the township of Spencerville off its paws with his resplendent coat and that smirk I swear was from a stolen sitcom from the 80s. Not that we really have sitcoms anymore – television along with the rest of society stopped being a thing. But Percy, he remained, gleefully frolicking around with a less-than-appropriate object clamped in his slobbery jaws, his audacious antics a shining beacon of hilarity amid the desolation.

Now, in this very moment, we find ourselves in the congenially cheerful Chow Hound Café, famed for a menu as welcoming as its name. Resembling a tin can of a junkyard with a dash of culinary fascination, Percy sniffs the offerings with an appreciative snort. Chicken with gravy, the smell of roast beef – a tasty sanctuary amongst the ruins, you get the idea. You might be thinking – ‘they serve human food to dogs?’ Well, in Spencerville, the answer is a resounding ‘why not?`

We’d gallivant around town, poking our snouts into every nook and cranny. Black Bulldog Bay, with its cosy waters, was a favourite of Percy – he’d fathom the terrains, his broad jaw chomping on the waves in a sort of jubilant interaction that I’ll likely never understand. The Tail Wagger’s Tailor offered an array of fetching confections for Percy’s canine companions, my attempts at explaining it was a fashion outlet and not an all-you-can-eat buffet repeatedly met with his disingenuous look of innocence.

Now, if there was ever a thing Percy found absolutely egregious, it’d be the unassuming vacuum cleaner. It sat there, silently, unnaturally clean in a world mired with grime – its presence an affront for a dog whose idea of cleanliness involved river water and the occasional stolen soap. As for the vet, he’d rather swallow a cactus. And a desert, well let’s not even get started on that.

While the world mourned over countless losses, Percy and I found a solace in Spencerville and its motley mix of believers, four-legged and two, united in their collective determination to soldier on. The shops, the cafés, the joyous canine camaraderie was a testament to the resilience of life, even in the direst of circumstances.

After all, in the end, aren’t we all just trying to make sense of a universe that steadfastly refuses to explain itself? Percy knew this well. He wasn’t bothered by the apocalypse. His problems were simpler: the salad, the vet, the vacuum cleaner, and the uncomfortable dearth of chew-toys in the brave, new post-apocalyptic world. It’s a dog’s life, and for Percy, life was a chew-toy waiting to be gnawed upon.

The End.

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