Hey there, it’s Li’l P! 🐾 Just a quick woof to say, in this tail of silence and shadows, I’ve become the heartbeat of hope. With Bumble by my side, I’ve nosed through the rubble to reunite with my fur-buddy Max. We’re dreaming big—reimagining Pawsburgh, pawprint by pawprint. Tail wags and tongue lolls, our adventure’s just begun. 🐶✨ #ChihuahuaCourage #PawsburghReimagined 🦴🌳

Catch you on the fluff side!
Pollita

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It came upon us like the proverbial thief in the night, the bone-rattling silence that followed the Great Howl. Pawsburgh, once a bustling utopia, with tails wagging like metronomes, now lay in a hushed anomaly, post-certain-very-bad-event. I’m Pollita, by the way—the Chihuahua with the spunk of a superstar and a penchant for an enthrallingly odd partnership with a yellow squeaky bee, Bumble.

I awake, not to the clinking of tags, but to a silence as profound as the look on a human’s face when you snatch the last bite of their chicken sandwich. I’ll give you an entry not from a diary but directly from the marrow of the day’s events.

The minute I step out, the air smells different; oniony with a hint of despair. It’s unnerving. Green grass? Nope. Each step on the ash-colored ground resonates my presence. “It’s like walking through Doberman Dunes without the scenic aspect,” I murmur.

As usual, Bumble is with me, cradled in my mouth like the precious cargo he is. But where ought I go? Do I dare endeavor a trip to Spaniel Springs, where the water probably tastes of loneliness now, or shall I ascend Malamute Mountain and howl at the void?

“I gotta eat first,” I muse. “A brain this size has to be fueled, right?”

So off to Mutt Munchies, or what’s left of it. I stroll in, my paws patting the ground as if hoping it might coax out a tune. “Pollita! I’ll be a dog’s uncle, I thought you’d gone to that great kennel in the sky,” says the proprietor, Rex, his golden fur tinged grey with dust.

“Rex, my faith in a grilled chicken breakfast remains unshaken,” I say, side-eyeing the emptiness. He nods, with the wisdom of an elder who’s seen too much, and disappears behind a curtain.

I sat, or rather perched. Max has always said I’ve got the air of a bird about to take flight. Speaking of which, old Max, my gallivanting partner-in-fur, isn’t here today. And that’s when the enormity of it all really dog-piles on me.

Rex returns, with a plate of chicken – it’s not grilled, but I shouldn’t grumble. Still, I am a dog; grumbling comes with the territory, along with sniffing, the occasional bark-off, and disdain for postal services.

I chomp away, imagining a world where Canine’s Cuisine hasn’t lost its zing, where Setter’s Steakhouse still serves a mean rib-eye. It’s hard not to think of the parks…

Peach Park! Of course! My under-the-sycamore sanctuary. With Bumble secured, I venture. The park’s now a peach pit, metaphorically speaking. The squirrels have vanished, likely taken up careers elsewhere. But the tree, my tree, stands defiant.

Max is there, as aged and wise as the collapsed society around us. “Thought you were chicken, eh?” he chuckles—a canine chuckle, mind you, an acquired taste.

“You know me better,” I retort. “You can upend the world, but never a Chihuahua’s schedule.”

Together, we plot. I talk of shops like The Doggy Depot, The Howling Husky Hardware Store, where hardware was once fetched… and Canine Couture, where the fashion was fierce—not apocalyptic chic.

“Perhaps,” Max says, his eyes old but kind, “we can rebuild. Not just buildings, but dreams, adventures.”

I like that. There’s a spark in me, fanned by Max’s words. A grabbing-life-by-the-leash kind of spark.

So as the sycamore’s shadow creeps over us, we imagine a new Pawsburgh, one squeaky bounce at a time. A place where a dog—no matter how small—can leave paw prints as profound as the past, and as hopeful as a treat just out of reach.

Indeed, tomorrow’s just a day away, but we’ve a lifetime to fetch it back.

The End.