Hey Ma,

In the thick of Pawsburgh’s nightly capers, your boy Widdle (a.k.a. Cowboy) outsmarted mechanical mongrels for a gourmet scavenger’s feast with sidekick Juicy Butt. Think of me as the furry James Bond of the doggy world—keeping tails wagging and bellies full under the stars. Fetched some glory, plenty of grub, and lived to bark the tale. Kids still think I’m just napping, but we know who the real MVP is. 😉

Catch ya on the flip side of the doggy door,
Widdle/Cowboy

Listen to the story here

In the fractured aftermath of a chaos not quite understood by the four-legged kind, there’s a place where the scent of hope still clings in the air, sharp as a fresh bone. Pawsburgh, a city built with claw and courage, became a haven for those of us with tails wagging defiantly against the winds of desolation.

I am Cowboy, the English bulldog mix, and scarce a pup in the nooks of Pawsburgh remains ignorant of my escapades. Indeed, my tales might be yarns spun at Pointer Pier, where dogs congregate beneath the robust planks, swapping stories like humans trade currency. But unlike those frivolous human words, ours hold the very essence of survival.

Just the other eve, Juicy Butt and I, a duo viewed by some in Pawsburgh as the mythic Cerberus in half, trotted to the edge of Samoyed Square. Our goal, decreed by the unspoken law of hunger: to pocket some leftover delights from Chowhound’s Chophouse, where even the remnants of feasts were like banquets in these lean times. The journey wasn’t without danger, mind you; the stillness a deceiving cloak, the nights sometimes filled with shadows, darker than the deepest recesses of Newfoundland Nook.

There is a saying among our kind, “A dog with a bone commands more respect than a king with a scepter.” In Pawsburgh, this rings true more than ever—a bone, a bite, a biscuit; the very commodities that could make or break alliances. As Juicy Butt and I sauntered, his snout twitched at the impending culinary trove. I understood his longing; the delectable cheese from my past Taco Bell roll-ups a ghostly flavor on my own tongue.

A peculiar melody, the sound of our paws upon the cobblestone, accompanied us as we wove through the eerie silence of Samoyed Square. The Chophouse loomed ahead, a beacon to our kind. But halt! A whisper, a click, a whir—sounds alien to our canine ears—froze us in our tracks.

“Oh, curses,” I mused in the manner of Thurber’s Mitty. “Not mechanical terriers again.” Indeed, the mechanical beasts, remnants of the humans’ folly, skulked like malcontent street cats, puttering on roads where oil mixed with ancient smells of sewer and sadness.

“We navigate through cleverness and calm,” I announced. Juicy Butt nodded, determined yet dubious, his ears perking to my plan. Patience was my ploy, a classic Cowboy scheme, watching their mechanical patrols with a stoic buzz in my chest. Then, like knights in a display of immaculate timing, we dashed.

Ah, success tasted of tenderloin tips, and the stars serenaded our triumph with their twinkling approval. A cozy nook beside the Chophouse became our dining hall, the reflections of our feast dancing in the eyes of my comrade.

But as all feasts end and dawn tiptoes near, we knew the retreat to our secret boroughs beneath The Groom Room and behind the silent barks of The Furry Friends Art Gallery was inevitable. We padded back, under the cloak of the dimming night, full-bellied and hearty in spirit.

The morning would surely bring forth the human children, their small hands reaching out to me in desperate echoes as I lay sprawled on my doggy bed, a conqueror amongst an ocean of plush lamb chop comrades. The innocence in their eyes, unable to grasp the nocturnal heroics that their Cowboy orchestrated, for in this walking pets’ world it is we who keep the flickering flame of mankind’s best friend burning.

And, my dear friends of Pawsburgh, in this post-apocalyptic world, rest assured that even as we wag on past desolation and dread, together, we shall never stray too far from the joys of frolic and feast, nor ever truly lose our way home.

The End.