Hey fam! It’s your arctic adventurer, Nanook here, the tail-waggin’ heroine of Pawsburgh. Just rebuilt a bit of canine culture at the Pup’s Paella today and swapped philosophical bones with Whiskers. 🐾 Spent the eve pondering atop Pyrenean Peak, where the wild in me sang with the stars. All in a dog’s day work in a world turned furry. Keep howlin’! 🌕✨🐶 #SiberianSymphony

Listen to the story here

In a world scrubbed thin of human folly—their towers toppled, their machines silent—there stood Pawsburgh, the last city for the spirited canine. I am Nanook, often referred to as the Siberian Symphony, not because I can play the piano with my paws—that’s absurd—but because I embody the wild, wandering arctic gales. Ah, here I go prattling away like a chattering Chihuahua. Let’s dive into my fur-coated life, shall we?

It was an ordinary Pawsburgh morning, if you can call mornings in a dog’s apocalyptic utopia ordinary. The sky churned a color you’d find if blue got its hands dirty, and there I was, with a stretch and a yawn, readying myself for the day.

On approaching Spaniel Springs, the chatter of the water told me secrets of places beyond high fences, the horizons I longed for. Those fences—nothing more than relics now. With my paw-fellows at my side, we’d taken to rebuilding, and among our proud creations was the Pup’s Paella, a lick-smacking homage to flavors far-flung and dearly remembered by our taste buds.

“Good morn, Nanook!” boomed mighty Barkley as I trotted into Paw Pad Thai for a bite. “Morn,” I mumbled through a yawn, but the golden sunlight of his presence did much to awaken my spirits.

Barkley’s barks were legendary; they said they could’ve woken humans if any were left to wake. But Barkley didn’t need humans, none of us did. Pawsburgh was ours, and it was enough. At least, that’s what I panted to believe.

The Wagging Tail Bookstore was next. I could read, you know? Don’t look so surprised. I favored a Vonnegut-ish satire, something to gnaw on between bones. Canines have wit; haven’t you heard?

The morning waned as we made rounds at Canine Couture Clothing, pawing over garments that would’ve made Parisian poodles drool. But not I, for I am husky, wild at heart; my fur is my garment, my pride.

A quiet conversation with Whiskers—the most enlightened of felines—unfolded at the Woof and Whisker Wellness Center. Yes, cats, go figure. Even in this world turned upside down, they found sanctuary among dogs. Whiskers purred, “Survival, dear Nanook, is a task of curiosity and resilience.” A cat’s resilience I admired, their curiosity I matched.

As dusk petted the ears of Pawsburgh, Pyrenean Peak summoned me, promised me a view that rivaled memory. And atop that peak, the tapestry of my thoughts gathered as if catching in the jagged claws of the mountains.

The wild wasn’t just out there; it thrummed within me. The vast chasms of pre-collapse freedoms echoed, and there I sat, the ruler of empty expanses, the dancer in the quiet ballet of the end.

There’s beauty, don’t you see, in this unfettered life; the catastrophe that clipped the wings of man gave rise to the dominion of the dog. So, what of tomorrow? Another day in the life of a canine in a world reshaped.

But as night embraced Pawsburgh, I nestled into my bed, a luxurious stash of stolen chicken scraps, in a house once ruled by humans. Now, it was just a place to lay my head. Sleep called like the howling of my ancestors, vast and deep, ready to share tales of today with my oblivious humans when, or if, they should ever return.

That’s Pawsburgh for you—pawprints where once shoes tread, barks echoing in places where words were once said. Human rules? Tossed aside like a frayed plush squirrel. Us dogs, we play by our own.

And me, Nanook, what am I? A playful spirit carved from the twilight of the world? Perhaps. But surely—just a husky who loves a good chase through open fields and a night sky reminiscent of my tapestried eyes.

The End.