Hey there,

In a post-human twist of fate, I became the unofficial chronicler of Pawsburgh, our four-legged kingdom of hope amidst the ruins. Dining solo at Corgi’s Crepes, venturing into Weimaraner Woods, and finding camaraderie in places like Pom’s Pies, I’ve woven our silent sorrows into shared strength. Just picture me: Finlay, the plucky Pinscher, spinning yarns and keeping tails wagging in dogged defiance of despair!

Catch you on the flip side,
Fin-omenal 🐾

Listen to the story here

Ahem, if I may have the pleasure of your company, dear reader, for a moment of narrative indulgence, as I recount a most extraordinary escapade—a tale woven with the threads of adventure in the wake of calamity.

I am Finlay, once an observer of predictable human patterns, a spectator of their comings and goings. But in an unexpected twist, the world as we knew it buckled, twisted, and careened to the edge of silence. As the remnants of humanity vanished in undignified haste, it was up to survivors like myself to rise from the ashes in Pawsburgh, a clandestine enclave of canine resilience.

Through the scorched vestiges of what once was, I found my way by twilight to Garnet Greyhound Grove. There, gleaming under a rather gloomy sky, was a spectacle of revived splendour that could only be likened to a dog’s unwavering hope. In a clearing, remnants of greyhounds, once fleet of foot, now found solace in sharing tales of their tenacity.

And tales I too had to share, for my ventures were far from ordinary. The Weimaraner Woods hid secrets beneath its charcoal canopy, and I, armed only with the courage of my breed, skulked in its depths. It wasn’t for faint-hearted mongrels, mind you; shadows lurked and eyes glimmered—echoes of the world’s fall—and yet, it was there I honed my grim resolve.

Upon emerging, I yearned for comfort, sought familiarity. And what could be more reassuring than the scent of grilled chicken wafting from Corgi’s Crepes? A beacon of culinary defiance amidst the rubble. As I sat, dining on a feast magicked by some unseen chef, my heart ached—a solitary king at a court deserted but by roaches and memories.

Yet spirits undaunted by life’s villainous machinations require solace of a softer kind. The Onyx Otterhound Oasis, once a retreat of rippling waters and mirthful muddling, now was an oasis only in name; a husk haunted by lost laughter, like mine, unsated by material respite.

Desolation can sour even the most vivacious soul, and sharing this post-apocalyptic desuetude with fellow wanderers at Pom’s Pies was scant comfort. Our collective mournfulness collected like dew on morning grass, and we pondered the shop fronts of Canine Couture Clothing, windows smeared with the vestiges of a fashion long forgotten, a frivolity out of reach, but undeniably missed.

Do remember, dear reader, that Pawsburgh was an asylum not merely for the body, but for the spirit as well. My foray to The Pooch Playhouse, reduced to smouldering timbers and embers of hope, demanded a sacrifice of childish glee. Therein, whispered the ghosts of Squeaky Squirrels past; a haunting requiem rivalled only by the croon of crickets.

In the heart of our canine community, The Doggie Daycare stood defiant, a bulwark against despair. Here, our tails found their wag once more, our muzzles lifted not in lament but in fortitude.

Voices of absented humans echoed in our collected stories, and divulging my past to inquiring snouts, I fondly whispered of the “Gentle Hand,” whose memory I harbor like a hidden jewel. They listened, for the essence of our odyssey is not solely in the surviving, but in the sharing of hushed tales.

Thus, I invite you, my two-legged compatriot, to indulge in the abridged memoir of a determined Pinscher—myself, of course. Mine is the story of Finlay within the tapestried annals of Pawsburgh, crowned by resilience, pockmarked by sorrow, yet ever vibrant with canine determination in the twilight of days.

The End.

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