Hey Ma,

Just lettin’ ya know that out here in Spencerville, I’m basically the Queen Bee. 🐝 Ruling the roost, spinning yarns and keeping peace with a swish of my tail. Meat’s my right-hand hound and Stella’s my shadow – we’re surviving the wilds, resisting ‘The Walking Pets’ menace, and still I steal some moments under the sun, dreamin’ of home. If ya pass by, look for me; I’m the lorekeeper with a twilight coat. Missin’ ya.

~ Sassafras 🐾✨

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In the shambles of what humanfolk might call a “post-apocalyptic world,” us critters in Spencerville done hit our own stretch of heaven, a little gambol in eternity. They say it was built for the likes of us, all manner of four-legged, finned, and feathered kin, to bide a while in revels, worryin’ naught for the morrow’s comin’. And rightly so—I, Sassy by name, have carved me somethin’ of a legendary status ‘mongst this community’s tapestry.

As sure as the moon chases the sun across the sky, and with a coat dappled like the dusky twilight itself, I reckon I’m the sovereign lady ’round these parts. I unspool my yarn as I ramble on through the stretches of this paradise that’s seen better days, the likes of which only a critter from realms beyond would fathom.

A fixture at the Western Fawn Pug Palace, I’m known for the tales I spin and the squabbles I settle. Leveraging a kind of diplomacy only fit for a queen, I greet each sunrise with a tail’s wag and each offense with a stern side-eye. My days, though filled with the echoes of human desolation, are as peachy as a ripe summer’s fruit.

Now, let it be said that an adventure ain’t an adventure without the proper compatriots at one’s side. Meat, bless his heart, is the steadfast chap who’d follow me through high water, though he’s more likely to cause a ruckus than play the hero in our escapades. And Stella—ah, the ever-present spirit of my kindred soul! We’re as two peas nestled in the selfsame pod, stories woven into one fine piece of work.

Onwards might we trot, through places like Bone Appetit or take a turn about Pup-Tastic Pizza, if the mood strikes. The townsfolk would tip their hats and offer nods as we made our rounds, partakin’ not just in food, but in the camaraderie that holds the seams of this place together. We’d turn up our snoots at food unbecoming of our taste and prowl the shops for a good bit of gossip or a shiny new collar.

Yet, rest assured, ‘spite the pleasantries, Spencerville hasn’t skirted the shadows that fell upon the world of man. The Walking Pets they called it, and though we’ve no living dead to speak of, there’s the scent of peril that nips like the winter’s chill. We gotta be sharp as a hound’s tooth, ‘less we fancy our tails caught in the maw of trouble.

But of all diversions and happenin’s, my dearest ritual remains to bask ‘neath the golden afternoon sun, curled up just so, snatchin’ a dream or two ‘neath the watchful expanse of sky. I reckon it’s as close to perfection as one might come in this or any other world. The fables whispered in every nook of Spencerville, from East Bulldog Bay to the Howling Husky Hardware Store, they like to linger on the name Sassy—sometimes a whisper, sometimes a shout; always a story worth knowin’.

And as much as I delight in the plush massacre of squeaky toys, the leap through the feral fields of freedom, there’s a lonesomeness to solitude that invites contemplation. I do miss the pad of human footsteps behind me, the warmth of hands not made of fur and paw. But as every doggone soul in this town will tell y’all, there’s a reunion somewhere beyond the stars, beyond the veil of this world and the next, where every loyal heart finds its way home.

So, should y’all ever wander ’bout Spencerville, searching for a cur with a coat like twilight and a spirit like a summer storm, you’ll find your gaze met by mine, steadfast beneath the storied heavens, proffering tales as old as time, under the hallowed watch of The Walking Pets.

The End.

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