Hey there! Your friendly canine Paul Revere here, Cruzer. Post-apocalyptic Pawsburg’s got a new order, all thanks to Operation Meaty Sunday Afternoon. Unlike humans, we don’t dabble in anything as boring as celery. Oh no, we reclaimed our steak and how! Sunrise never looked better, my friend. Call me Mad Max-doggo version, if you will! Woof Woof!
-C Dog Goodrich.

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Ah, Pawsburg, where the nights are for scheming and the days for sneaking. It all ended – well, the human world that is. Ah, you humans. You had a good run- inventing things like cheddar cheese and my revered squeaky hamburger toy. Kudos. But all that’s history now, as far as we dogs are concerned, your old golf courses and beaches you used to litter are now our sanctuaries – Boxer Beach, Shepherd Skyline, and Fawn Cream Maltese Meadow. And that’s where my story picks up.

I wasn’t always a post-apocalyptic Pawsburg survivalist, I was just Cruzer, the affable Australian Shepherd with the coat of an evening tide. Now, I’m Cruzer the survivalist, the planner, the gatherer, entertaining the possibility of adopting a growl if need be – in short, I was becoming a cat and I wasn’t pleased about that.

One sunny afternoon, after the great squirrel race of ’23 (which I modestly yet proudly confess, I won), my gang and I met at our usual spot – Bone Appetit. The best joint in town, now run by an organized chaos of us dogs. No humans. Not a single one. Not one doling out endless rules – like celery is good, steak is bad. Not that I have anything against rules- rules make you feel safe even when they are absurd. But celery? That’s just cruel.

Click and Clack, the ceaseless terrors they were, dared to rob the Dog-gone Good BBQ, exploit the post-apocalyptic spree. I protested, staring into their wild, expecting eyes, “Do we look like a couple of vigilante Dalmations?,” I may have barked a bit too liberally.

We needed to plan, we needed a leader. So there it was, it fell on me. With a tailored strategy, we initiated Operation Meaty Sunday Afternoon, named after our collective last juicy steak memory.

Believe me, it was madness in the night. But madness with a cause. With our eyes softer and lighter than the moonlight and a strategy honed through time and experience, we descended upon the Dog-gone Good BBQ. With each dog performing their role to canine perfection, all Prometheus-like, we reclaimed our steak.

Smoky, mouth-watering and most importantly, ours, the steak was glorious. It became a symbol- of dissent and unity, a beacon calling out to other dogs. A sign that Pawsburg was not just a town of playful, abandoned dogs, but a testament to resilience and camaraderie. We, the dogs of Pawsburg, have survived, and let me tell you, I’ve never seen the sunrise more clearly than on the morning after Operation Meaty Sunday Afternoon.

Who knew I’d grow to enjoy this post-apocalyptic life? There is something liberating about absolute freedom, no strings attached, even when the strings in question are from celery.

The End.

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