Hey pack leader, 🐾

Apocalypse might’ve chewed up the routine, but I’m now Pawsburgh’s chicken-saving, zombie-cat-dodging hero. From sifting through rubble for safety to leading our paws to poultry paradise, I’ve turned lemon days into feasts of legend! Moral? A good snout for treats and humor keeps our tails wagging.

Stay pawsome,
Bella 🐶✨

Listen to the story here

Ah, what a day that dawns in Pawsburgh when your ears perk up to the distant bark of the apocalypse. Who ever thought, you ask? Life after the cataclobber – a massive frisbee-shaped ship that hovered and unfairly sucked up all the kibble – is a curious tail, wagged best by yours truly, Bella.

So there I was, just a dappled darling with a zest for zipping through Weimaraner Woods, when the world went bonkers. But let me tell ya, when life throws you lemons, you fetch ’em… and then bury ’em where they’ll never sour your chicken dreams again.

Now, in my post-apocalyptic prowl, I was no longer just a Rat Terrier – I was a Rat Terrier with a mission. You see, the rest of the canine community in Pawsburgh looked to me for guidance, thanks to my unmatched knack for sniffing out safe spots and chicken. Ah, chicken, my enduring obsession.

My morning started with a woof and a puff as I trotted down to Lhasa Lane, where the ambiance was more ghost town than tail-wagging soiree. Duke, who was more salt than pepper now, greeted me with his old war-woof charm, and Casey, ever the spark plug, bounded over as if each hop dodged the cracks in the crumbling world.

“We need the Bella blueprint,” Casey yipped, ready to spring into whatever adventure lay pawprints ahead.

“Blueprints? We don’t need no stinkin’ blueprints,” I quipped, channeling my inner Mel Brooks, because if you can’t laugh at the apocalypse…

The day’s quest was to locate the hidden stash of chicken rumored to be buried deep within the Bloodhound Bluffs. So off we trotted, our paws set with determination, and me with the added burden of hope balanced atop my furry noggin.

In our travels, we paid mind to avoid The Doggie Daycare – now ironically named, seeing as it was teeming with what I could only describe as zombie cats. Those feline fiends with their unblinking stares were scarier than a bath during thunder.

The trek was not without its hurdles. At the Puppy Patisserie, a band of rebel pups had taken to looting what crumbs remained. The sight of such desperation would tug at the heartstrings, but tugging them too hard might render a dog unfit for survival.

We pressed on, our bellies growling louder than any pup turned renegade robber. As we neared Bloodhound Bluffs, the air filled with the scent of legends – chicken. And not just any chicken, but the kind that warmed the soul, a recollection of home-cooked goodness.

The source, however, was guarded by what remained of the once-renowned Chihuahua’s Chimichangas staff. They, too, had succumbed to the cataclysm, now a motley crew of groaning, apron-donning doggies with a nose for keeping their hoarded treasure.

We needed a plan as crafty as a dog who knows just how to angle their head for optimum treat acquisition. And I had such a plan – distract and dash.

Casey sprang into action, darting around with his indefatigable pep, while Duke, wise as he was, used his calming howl to lull the guards into a brief stupor. That’s when I made my move, my paws scratching the earth in a frenetic dance until, eureka! Clenched between my teeth, the aromatic jackpot.

As night fell on Pawsburgh, we three sat atop Bloodhound Bluffs, the hushed world around us and a feast of reclaimed chicken blissfully ignored by those zombified cats.

So here I lay, narrating a day in the life of Bella, apocalypse survivor, friend to the brave, and champion of chicken and good humor. The moral? Even in lemon times, a Rat Terrier can lead the pack – and the pack can feast like kings.

Remember, when the moon shines high and the darkness whispers, there’s always a tail to wag in the face of adversity – with a spot of comedy on the side.

The End.