Hey, it’s Zira. I guess I’m the unofficial scribe of our scrappy gang, trotting through Pawsburgh’s remains with an eye for the poetic and a nose for adventure. We’re weaving a tail of survival, dodging howlers, skirting danger, keeping the spirit of our fallen world alive with every pawstep and whisper. Through Weary Whiskers’ highs and Tug’s snoring lows, we wag on—tracing our stories in the dust of yesterday with the heartbeat of tomorrow. Stay steadfast. Stay hopeful. – Z.

Listen to the story here

In the half-light of the eerie dawn, I stretch my legs beneath the comforting weight of the baker’s quilt—a parting gift on his part, a survival blanket on mine. I yawn, a gesture that stretches far past my jaws and straight into the marrow of my bones, where the last memories of a world with mail carriers and squirrel debates rest like fossils. Our Pawsburgh, once a frolicsome haven of tail-wags and bone-buries, stands in the silhouette of its former joy.

Today, I ambled down Whippet Way, a street now bordered with more than sunshine and hydrants, its once charming cobblestones crumbled like a stale dog biscuit under paw. It’s funny, I suppose, how the essence of adventure alters its flavor when marinated in the unknown. Pom’s Pies, the scent of apple turnovers now replaced by something less sugary, more metallic—it’s closed, like the eyes of a good dog dreaming no more.

Marley, old chap, he’s changed. That bark could once summon a crowd. Now it’s a beacon for trouble, a siren in the silence. We keep it to whispers around these parts, and only when necessary. Our words are survivors, too, after all.

A sound in the distance—Tug’s rhythmic snores, once the punchline to a day’s joke, now our lullaby. It’s a reminder that not all beats are heartbeats, and not all heartbeats are alive. I cast a sideways glance at Whiskers, perched atop what remained of Briard Bridge. We’ve stopped questioning her identity crisis. A cat among dogs? A dog in cat’s whiskers? Nowadays, identities are as fluid as our reality.

I remember the sunsets with the baker, when he’d share secrets kneaded into his dough—human words I could savor in my own way. Now, I guard his silence, a hollow vessel of missing laughter.

“Zira,” comes a voice, disturbing the hush. It’s Marley, golden fur matted but eyes still holding yesterday’s spark. “We’ve got to move,” his tone, serious as the dimming stars above. “The howlers—”

I know the kind. Dogs not like us. Dogs lost. Dogs who forget the feel of an old rope or the flavor of chicken legs. They roam Pawsburgh, a snarl without a smile, a bark without a soul.

And so, we trot, a tattered pack towards Eskimo Estuary. It’s said that the water there, cold as an unsniffed bottom, can wash away the grime of this new world. The estuary, a once festive place, now holds the reflection of the sky—a wrinkled, somber face I barely recognize.

You see, dear friend, the strange truth is that even as the world falls apart, we find the scraps, the remnants, the leftovers of our human hearts. They’re in the flick of an ear, the scent of despair, and the persistence of the morning dew that lingers—defiant of the darkness.

Through the mirror of my amber eyes, Pawsburgh transforms. The quiet tells its own tale, and I carry it in my chest, where the rhythm of my paws beating against the earth sings a mantra of survival. There’s beauty in the breakdown, they say, and I believe them.

The howlers howl, but we, this motley crew of walk-trotting poets, we wag on. And I could tell you, with a wit as dry as Vonnegut’s, that this, this is life, and life is this: a journey through the ruins with paws steadfast and hearts brimming with stories yet to be told.

The End.