Hey, it’s Diesel! Another day at Pawsburg, doggie-legging through ruins, stirring up a bird riot with my squeaky ball. Played food critic at Mrs. Hudson’s (still hate broccoli!). Craftsman at Tailors, took a dip in the creek, and topped it all with a cool-down under the Siberian Summit shadow. Tough dog’s day, but who’s complaining? Same again tomorrow! Woof, D.

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The sun had just begun to rise over Lower Silver Siberian Summit and there lay Diesel, paws twitching slightly in his sleep. It was another day in the boarder town of Pawsburg, a refuge where all dogs scampered off to when their owners were asleep. Now, Diesel was no log-head, he was a Mini Schnauzer and with that distinctive schnauzer stache’ and curious black eyes, you couldn’t help but notice this fiery spirit.

Higher up, the sun looked over the destroyed human world, casting long, resilient shadows through the cracks of those ancient ruins. All other dogs, I imagined, were still dozing, committing that act of resistance. Diesel, however, was rustling about in his dreams. A half yawn stumbled out of his mouth– a signal that only meant one thing. Wake up, Diesel, it’s time to face another dawn.

He answered the call, stretching out his smoky-grey coat and silently preparing for yet another adventure. His paws itching for the possibility of another day alive in this post-apocalyptic canine paradise. I had observed him for years now, wedged between rotted wood and rusty metal, scribbling down his escapades in a paperback I snatched from The Wagging Tail Bookstore.

I saw him pick up his beloved squeaky rubber-ball from amongst the ruins. With a soft squeeze, the squeak echoed off the nearby decaying monuments, breaking the morning silence. In retaliation, the birds took flight, cutting through the apocalyptic skyline with anything but grace. Diesel chuckled and wagged his tail at the startled spectacle. He had a soft spot for humor.

I followed him from Retriever River to Chihuahua Castle, trailing behind his rambunctious energy. He made occasional stopovers at Pup-Cakes and Bone Appetit, wolfing down that chicken flavored kibble from Mrs. Hudson’s Pet Bistro. I saw him cringe and spit out that broccoli he got served one time at Chow Down Chow Chow. Purple face, ears flattened and teeth bared. And I wrote it all down.

Diesel was the spirit of Pawsburg, the very definition of not giving up. When he wasn’t playing referee at Canine Couture Clothing or storytelling at The Tail Wagger’s Tailor, he was down by the creek. His secret thinking spot where he belly-flopped and splashed about, wrestling with the cool, clear water. There, he’d pause and lie flat, his ears shifting as if listening to the whispers the waves held. Did he hear the world speaking? Did he understand it?

Despite the unforgiving, desolate landscape ruled by ominous buildings and the human relics strewn about, Diesel had a purpose. His staunch aversion to vegetables, for instance, was nothing short of a crusade. He was an anti-broccoli activist, scoffing at every broccoli he encountered. I saw him do it. Would you believe!

The day ended, and Diesel sleepily trotted back to his spot under the shadow of the Lower Silver Siberian Summit. His snouts twitching at the early signs of dreams. As darkness fell, and the last ray of the sun disappeared, Diesel, the spirited Mini Schnauzer, was ready to do it all over again tomorrow. Because that was Pawsburg – a gathering of survivors, and Diesel? He was the strongest of us all.

The End.