Hey Sam,

Quick pupdate: Adventure beckons! Led our furry fellowship against those crafty squirrels today, protected Pawsburgh once again. May have missed your ankles, but rest easy knowing I’m the lone wolf who keeps the Homestead at bay. Don’t fret, for I, Yancy the Brave, am on the tail of peace and prosperity. 🐾

Tail wags and face licks,
Yancy 🌕🐕

Listen to the story here

So it goes, with the moon in my chest and adventure in my paws.

It was just another howl at the moon when Sam, my beloved human, packed a bag with that tell-tale haste—a symphony of zippers and laments. Off they shuffled to the great human playground they call “Office,” and there I was, alone but not quite. Because I, Yancy, knew of a place. Pawsburgh.

First on the agenda, a visit to the Snooty Snout Boutique. It’s a post-apocalyptic world, dear humans, and one must dress the part if one wishes to blend in with the ruins and the bold new smells. A tactical harness snug over my ebony fur—courtesy of The Tail Wagger’s Tailor—and I was ready to rendezvous with Max, Bella, and Grumpy old Walter.

Pointer Pier was our meeting point, a ghost of festivity, now a somber pier peering into the misty veil of the unknown. Max was already there, his wiry fur spiked into a natural punk vestige of the days before all humans took a mysterious sabbatical. “Yancy, did you bring the tennis ball?” he eyed my sturdy side-pocket.

“Indeed,” I replied, tossing the seasoned sphere to him. It was our signal to commence the proceedings, a distraction for any sneaky squirrels plotting their next legendary heist of our precious food supplies.

Bella arrived, her gait elegant as ever atop the crumbling concrete, shaking her glorious fur free of dust and potential eavesdroppers. “I’ve heard Husky’s Hotcakes has been ransacked,” she reported. “The squirrels are getting crafty.”

Walter sauntered in last, a reluctant ally in our four-legged fellowship, his whiskers twitching with disdain or perhaps respect — it was hard to tell. “And I suppose you expect a cat’s help to solve this canine conundrum?” he grumbled, hiding his intrigued purr. We did, and we didn’t need to speak it.

Our path led us through Schnauzer Street’s maze of abandoned kibble and over to Affenpinscher Avenue, eerie in the quietude of its empty doghouses and storefronts. The wind whispered through forgotten toys and silent swing sets, overgrown with the plants that dominated our new world.

As we sneaked past the remnants of Fido’s Feast, I fought the urge to survey the menu—no doubt loaded with steak and bacon-flavored treasures—and instead focused on the mission. Citrus, the very anti-thesis of my culinary delights, was our secret weapon. When life gives you lemons, well, there wasn’t much a dog could do with them. But in our times, they could clear a room better than the most aggressive bark. And so we forged on.

The day’s dusk beckoned us to the heart of the pandemonium, where an assembly of rebellious squirrels amassed, their tiny claws hoarding our sustenance. And so we launched our citrus onslaught, accompanied by our most ferocious barks and bellows. The enemy scattered, in an erratic ballet of tails and twitches, defeated yet again by the cleverness of Pawsburgh’s finest.

Returning through the dimming light, our canine cadre moved with the victory of warriors, the battle-hardened champions of Pawsburgh. And as I watched the stars twinkle to life like an audience to our living legend, I understood.

I was more than an all-black black lab, I was Yancy, the pooch with the prophetic white patch, the loyal friend, the silent sneak. These were the tales of my life in Pawsburg — and so it goes.

The End.

Share This Story: