Hey buddy,

Just another day in Pawsburgh, scavenging for hope in the kibble rubble with my pal Pablo. We might be outnumbered by memories, but we’re still wagging in the ruins. Think of me as the unofficial mayor of this now-silent barkopolis. If you swing by, I’ve got tails of the old world and dreams for a new one. Keep us in your thoughts.

Wags and Whiskers,
Hugo

Listen to the story here

It’s hard to believe how quiet Pawsburgh got after the Great Rumble that turned the world topsy-doggy. The chaotic tremors shook all the fluff and life out of what was once a tail-wagging paradise.

Never thought I’d be the sort of pit bull to spin a yarn, but seeing as you’re here and there’s nothing on the telly but static memories, I’ll give it a go.

The morning sun used to rise over Hound Heights—now it peeks with suspicion over heaps of kibble brick and broken dreams. I stroll down what’s left of Pinscher Plaza, passing Terrier Tacos. Well, what was Terrier Tacos. Their chalupas? To die for. Now it’s just a sign jutting out, the letter ‘T’ swinging like it’s clueless about the ‘acos’ it’s lost.

I’m making my way to Shar-Pei Shores. Waves don’t roll there anymore. It’s just a stretch of sand with memories buried underneath. Not bones, mind you. Memories. Like the time I had a little surf-off with a Cockapoo named Carlito. He could hang ten better than any pooch I knew. Now the Shores are where we gather to share stories of the before times, tails heavy on the sand.

Doggie Daycare is post-apocalyptic central. Little guys that never growl drew up all the doggone plans there. Trust a Chihuahua to be the brain and a St. Bernard to be the brawn when reconstructing society. Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store is our pantry and arsenal—kibble alongside squeaky toys, no assembly required.

My place, my cozy nook, somehow it still stands. The fireplace’s gone cold, but I wag on, warming up by memories. I got my squeaky rubber rooster, my frayed rope toy, and my culinary dislikes—I’m looking at you, lemons, the archenemies of my existence.

Take yesterday, for instance. I’m out, doing my morning sniff-around, and who do I see nosing through the destruction? Pablo—the scruffy tabby that’s seen more lives than there’s left in Dog’s Delicacies. We’re an odd couple, that feline and I, but these days, we’re each other’s keepers. Can’t say I imagined spending the end of the world with a cat when I should be munching on sirloins at Barking Brunch. But that’s irony for you, served chill.

I tell him, “Pablo, my man, what’s the scratching post like these post-apocalyptic days?”

He purrs, “Well, if the apocalypse’s taught us anything, it’s that scratching at the ghosts of old sofas ain’t quite the same.”

I laughed, the sound echoing off the empty shambles of Hound Heights.

“Any sparrows tweet your way today?” I asked.

He flicked his tail. “They’re writing their own survivor tales.”

See, the hustle and bark of what we had, the dog-eat-dog world, it’s as if it went up the chimney, leaving behind something simpler yet harder than the toughest chew toy. You learn to delight in the small things, even if they come with a side of the world turned upside down.

So, here I am, the self-proclaimed Prince of Pawsburgh, barking into the void. If someone’s throwing us a bone from the cosmos, I just hope it’s a meaty one.

Well, that’s enough chinwag from me. The sun ain’t hanging high forever, and there’s work to be done, memories to make among the rubble. Gonna dig for treasure amongst tragedy, ’cause that’s what us canines do best.

Remember us here in Pawsburgh, where we’re reconstructing doggy dreams paw by paw, with tails fiercely a-wagging. And if you’re ever in town, swing by the Shores. The waves may have gone, but the stories keep rolling in.

The End.