Hey Mom,

Wish you could see me in Pawsburgh, living out a real dog-eat-dog adventure! As the unspoken leader, I’ve gathered a crew of furry survivalists and we’re bringing a touch of class back to the city. From sniffing out the old haunts to holding council at Bark-n-Bite Bistro, I’m weaving stories of resilience and revival – all with a tail-wagging twist. Tigger says ‘hi’, and we’re both convinced that cats and dogs are brewing a better tale than humans ever did. Belly rubs and head scratches are missed, but the spirit of adventure keeps the dream alive!

Stay pawsitive,
Corbeebee 🐾

Listen to the story here

There I was in Pawsburgh, a Boston Terrier stepping through echoes of a world where only the hound-hearted remained. The air, thick with the scent of mystery and survival, invigorated my spirit.

“Corbin,” they said, “how do you fancy your chances out here in the remnants of wagging civilization?” My answer? A bark, loaded with the confidence of a canine unchained from mankind’s downfall.

We roamed the ruins—the proud buildings of Shar-Pei Shores now but silhouettes against the crimson sky, the deserted haunts of Pointer Pier whispering stories of old, and the tattered flags of Lhasa Lane snapping like the aspirations we once held dear.

I passed the hollow shell of Pup’s Paella, its once savory scents now just ghosts in my nostrils. “Who’s cooking paella now?” I’d wonder aloud, my words carried away by the rough wind to nobody’s listening ears.

Food was scarce, but memories? Oh, those were plentiful. The fetching feline pet emporium, now just scattered toys among the dust, still held the hidden charm of a squeaky ball once adored but never revealed.

“Prescott, you scruffy philosopher,” I addressed the empty space where the tuxedo cat once posed like a feline statue of some forgotten deity. “I bet you’re pondering the nine lives theorem in new, unexplored dimensions.”

Our reality had shifted, and as the twilight embraced Pawsburgh, I yearned for the comfort of Chowhound’s Chophouse. Instead, I settled for the scent of grilled chicken teasing my memory, a cruel reminder of feasts once cherished.

Yet, amid the desolate calm, Pawsburgh whispered of resilience. At Bark-n-Bite Bistro, I convened my council of canine counterparts—a motley crew of survivors, each bearing tales of narrow escapes and bravery that would have left less steadfast hearts cowering. We shared a silent meal, a communion of sorts, amidst the faint reverie of kibble and camaraderie.

The assembly of mutts and purebreds gathered ’round, my staunch friend Tigger contributing a feline perspective, his once plump frame lean from the rigors of survival. “Dogs might have their day,” he’d say with a Cheshire smirk, “but cats have their millenniums.”

By the Tail Wagger’s Tailor, I’d find my momentary peace, curling up amidst fabric scraps that whispered of garbs once fashioned for fetes and galas. A quilt here offered warmth, quite akin to the embrace of my human, whose touch lingered like a fading dream.

Restless still, I’d forgo the sanctity of my sandy retreats and verdant expanses, settling instead for forays into the remnants of humanity’s hubris. With each scavenged book and artifact, I promised the return of legacy to the paws of preservationists, cultured canines like myself.

Avoiding the pitfalls of the bathhouse, where cleansing was now a conspiracy of echoes and damp despair, I’d sidestep the watering hole of dismay, my coat a trifle less kempt, but my pride fully intact.

“We’re rebuilding, you see,” I’d recount to my audience of starlit skies, “paw by paw, howl by howl. Mark my words, Pawsburgh will rise again. We’ll craft a narrative grander than any fairy tale tossed aside by the thumbless.”

Sometimes, when the moon hung low and full, I’d pause. The night would descend into a canvas, and I’d paint my legacy in the fauve shades of hope and loyalty. “I am no simple Boston Terrier,” I’d declare, “I am Corbin, regent of the reborn, harbinger of tales yet woven.”

The sun’s return would beckon me to slumber, a cue that another chapter lay in wait, ready to be filled with the resolve and vigor befitting the epoch I’d lead. And as I’d doze, my last thought twined around the imagination of humans yet asleep, in worlds parallel and unsuspecting, unaware that their hounds of heart had forged realms anew.

So here it is, another day, another chapter in the apocalyptic saga of Pawsburgh. And me? Well, I’m just a storyteller, crafting the world anew, one paw print at a time.

The End.