Hey there,

Tank here, or Bubba as you fondly call me. Today’s been a hoot – hustling around Spencerville, standing up for pupper rights while dodging flying cucumber salads. Miss the scent of your Hagen-Dazs wrappers, but I’ve got a town to keep in line and balls to chew, all until we meet again.

Keeping the tail wagging,
Tanks-a-Lot

Listen to the story here

One fine afternoon, the weather began brewing. The dark clouds hung low and a brisk gust of wind roared through East Bulldog Bay, and I found myself hankering for the taste of a good frothy hop beverage at Pup-Peroni. My muscles itch, paws eager for road dust. Old Lulu sat on our porch, giving me that reckless eye of hers. She knew what was coming — we all did, here in Spencerville.

“We in for a run, Tank?” she called at me, her tone just as headstrong as the day she took her first breath.

“Running ain’t gonna cut it anymore, Lu,” I replied with a gruff voice, mastering a stoic look with my distinguished gray face, “Got to stand and fight sometimes. Maybe today’s that day.”

Stockpiling Hagen-Daz wrappers from the back alley, Sparky and Sweet Miss Daisy, bless their hearts, but what madness. Can’t run a doggie daycare or a Woofy Bakery without a law in the land. No sir. But today, it was going to change. It had been brewing like a storm in my gut. Us animals can feel the thick sickness lurking in the wind miles before it strikes.

I strolled down to Pup-Peroni, hankering to quench my thirst. The K9 Kebabs that evening smelled inviting, like a siren luring me towards her, singing a song of grilled steak, my ultimate weakness. Salivating, I knew cucumbers were inevitably hiding in there somewhere ready to ruin the blissful harmony between me and steak, but I had bigger battles ahead.

The evening had drowned in darkness as folks started crowding Pup-Peroni. The juicy tidbits flying across the room, laughter echoing against the wooden panels, their chatter filled the air.

Beside me, Sparky, a wise old thing, foretold of signs. “Something’s coming, Tank,” he said. He smelled it in the air, and I couldn’t deny it. With a heavy heart, I decided to prepare and fight whatever was coming to Spencerville.

With a stubborn approach of defiance, we moved, balls, big and small, squeaky and chewy tucked under our armpits while we barrelled through Furrific Fried Chicken shop, causing a feathers ruffle. Survival or chaos — it’s all the same in this pet friendly post-apocalyptic land.

That night stands at the front lines of what Spencerville will become. A town where pets lived a human-like existence, defying odds, pushed to the edge, only to come back stronger — all tethered by the hope of meeting our owners someday.

And there we were, waiting in the twilight of impending doom, armed with chewed tennis balls, dodging cucumber salads, and living for the moment; a band of comrades waiting to protect our land, Spencerville.

So that’s the tale, my dear friends. From a gruff, brindle, Old English Bulldog, Tank — it’s just another day in paradise. Until next time, when the tale unfolds further.

The End.

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