Hey partner, it’s Willow (aka the Ham Huntress) here. Just checked in from Pawsburgh, post Tailspin era. Today’s quest led me to the remnants of Pawsitively Purrfect for some legendary ham – life’s not just about survival, it’s about living! Dodged some radioactive squirrels and shared a scare with Springer, but all in a day’s work for this fur-covered treasure hunter. Keep your paws crossed for me and save a sunset spot on the porch. Adventure may call, but there’s no place like home. 🐾 #ApawcalypseSurvivor #HamQuest

Listen to the story here

It was the most ordinary Tuesday, just before the Great Tailspin of ’29, when the two-legged universe folded like a bad poker hand. Ever since, Pawsburgh’s been paradise for the four-paw variety, myself included.

So there I was, trotting through Weimaraner Woods, dodging shadowy figures that may or may not have been former squirrels. Honestly, I never cared for the little furballs, even back when they had less glow-in-the-dark qualities.

“I’ll never understand that tennis ball,” Whiskers once said, disdain in his whiskery voice. “It’s as scruffy and battered as a postman after a pack of chihuahuas got through with him.”

“Sentimental value,” I retorted with a growl, “and you’re one to talk, with that ratty feather-on-a-stick thing you bat around.”

Ah, the ball. I clutched it between my teeth like a lifeline as I navigated the woods. My mottled coat blended into the gloom, a serendipitous camouflage for such trying times.

Now, I’d always been a homebody, my backyard and its oak sanctuary my world. But under the shade of trees turned to charcoal drawings against a muted sky, home felt leagues away. Still, I had an adventure to complete before daylight abandoned me to the more unruly creatures of the night.

My destination? Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store, or what was left of it. That’s where the legend told of a stash of ham—whole, glorious, salty slices untouched by the catastrophe. For a ham aficionado like me, it was the Holy Grail and a lost city of gold wrapped into one.

Pawsburgh may have been canine-centric, but we were a sophisticated bunch. Chowhound’s Chophouse, Paw Pad Thai, even Woof Waffles had been testament to that, before menus gave way to scavenging guides and the chef specials were just “Whatever you can scavenge, you connoisseur.”

But I digress.

“Squirrel!” a voice yelled, and I nearly jumped out of my fur. Relax, it turned out to be Springer, a local Spaniel with a humor as dry as kibble left out overnight. The apocalypse hadn’t dampened his spirits, or his tail’s propensity to wag at idyllic speeds.

“A little heads-up next time, Springer?” I said, nudging my beloved ball with my nose before stowing it safely in the satchel slung around my chest.

“Where’s the fun in that, Willow?” he replied, before darting off, probably chasing after phantom rodents. Between you and me, I’m fairly certain he’s got a screw loose—a small one, probably from one of those over-engineered chew toys.

Anyway, there I was, belly to the ground, slinking past what once was Pomeranian Park—now a strange, scentless place, all the pom-pom-tailed trees having lost their fluff in The Blast. I wouldn’t linger here. No, sir.

After what felt like a trek across dog years, the dilapidated Pet Store appeared. Its weathered sign dangled from one hook, twitching with the enthusiasm of a senior Schnauzer’s tail.

It was now or never.

Navigating the aisles, I found paradise—a single, unspoiled packet of ham. My tail replicated the beat of a determined drummer as I grabbed the package with my teeth, careful not to puncture the precious contents.

Then it struck me. A tremor of reminiscence, a scent not of pork but of home.uck.”

The End.