Hey there,

Just wanted to give you a tail’s wag of an update from the rough barks of Pawsburgh. Steering the pack through shadowy streets and tales of survival with a wag and a growl. Here’s to finding fellow furry souls and pawing forward to rebuild, one snack hunt at a time. Keep your sniffer up and your spirit unchained!

With a woof and courage,
Cathy 🐾🐶

Listen to the story here

In the heart of decayed Pawsburgh, my paws trod with delicacy upon the fractured concrete. The silent ruins of what once was a bustling canine utopia now whispered secrets of the past into my perky ears. I am Cathy, the intrepid French bulldog, and this is my tale of survival in the remnants of a world our human counterparts would barely recognize.

A hush fell over Opal Pomeranian Park, the air still and thick with the scent of desolation. In this eerie tranquility, I reflected upon my days of leaping joyously across its now overgrown fields, the rusted framework of playground swings casting long shadows like the specters of happier memories.

Bella, the quick-pawed spaniel, once nuzzled through the underbrush at my side, now stood guard at the perimeter of our scavenged sanctuary. Max padded silently up to me, his golden fur not quite as lustrous as in the days of leisurely strolls around Central Bark Park. His gaze settled on the satchel at my flank – a satchel that contained more than remnants of our past; it held the seeds of our future.

“Nervous, Cathy?” he asked, his voice betraying the strain of lost comforts and the constant vigilance demanded by our new reality.

Shaking my head, wrinkles deepening on my brow, I replied with subtle determination, “Not nervous, Max. Just ready.”

We made our way toward Quartz Qimmiq Quarter. The silence of Onyx Otterhound Oasis, once resonant with barks of joy, now felt oppressive. We trod past Barking BBQ and Pooch’s Pizzeria, their windows shattered, their once-inviting scents long since dissipated into the espectros of hunger and hardship.

I missed those simpler times, when my only worry was the unsettling tang of citrus, so foreign to my canine sensibilities. But now, the hunt for sustenance surpassed all fickle distastes, and my companions and I relied on instincts we never knew slumbered within us.

A growl in the distance pulled us from our reveries. Could there be others still prowling these derelict streets, friends or foes? My curly tail twitched in alert, no longer the metronomic sign of excitement but a barometer of tension.

We approached The Wagging Tail Bookstore, its façade a gaping maw of darkness. Mr. George would have wept to see such ruin, his domain once alive with storytelling now entombed beneath silence and dust.

Inside, I scoured the shelves, not for the nourishment of stories – my old delight – but for scraps to sustain us. My eyes fell upon a well-worn rubber chicken, my favorite toy, now inconsequential in a world where survival dictated necessity over play.

“Anything?” Max asked, padding over to my side, eyes hopeful.

I gave a solemn shake of my head, and we slinked away, deeper into the secrets of Pawsburgh.

As the moon ascended, casting pale light over our plight, the arid wind carried the all-too-familiar echoes of canine whimpers from afar. Bella’s ears perked up as we all pause, united in our silent query of whether to seek out these mysterious voices or to retreat into the shadows that had become our refuge.

“Let’s go to them,” I said firmly, conviction in my bark that resonated with the fiery spirit of survival. “This is our world now, our Pawsburgh. We find others. We rebuild. Together.”

With tails entwined in purpose, we ventured into the unknown, each step a paw print of hope shaping the narrative of our new existence. This was the walking pets’ odyssey, and I, Cathy, with my boundless enthusiasm albeit tempered by the times, led the way into the dawning age of our kind. So may you understand, dear reader, that even in apocalypse, the heart of a dog beats fiercely with life’s undying melody.

The End.