Hey fam 🐾,

Turns out I’m the unofficial mayor of Spencerville post-apocalypse! Leading our pack through empty streets, following my nose to nuggets, and chairing the canine council at town hall. We’re thriving in our quirky, human-less world – though we miss those leash-holders. Stay pawsitive and remember, skip the broccoli. 🥦✖️

Catch ya on the fluff side,
Ellie 🐶✨

So it goes in Spencerville, a blink of an eye from the mortal world, yet as far from it as Krypton is from Kansas. We’ve got our daily routines, sure as sunrise. But this isn’t your average terrier-trod town, oh no. Here I am, Ellie, walking through the remnants of a world that apparently went to the dogs. Literally.

It was an average triumph of a morning, sun on my back as I trotted down the cracked pavement of what we mutts refer to as Main Street – though the only thing “main” about it was the main chance of finding something more eventful than a ill-fated squirrel to chase. But, you see, Spencerville is currently more about walking pets than wagging tails.

I headed towards The Bone Appetit because, honestly, what’s a day without the sniff of grilling steak wafting through the air? Rosie usually awaits with a tennis ball that’s seen better millennia, whereas Baxter – ever the droll dreamer – probably lost another game of solitaire with Scrabble tiles.

Today, though, Main Street was quiet. Not even the whisper of a flea’s footfall.

I continued on, my paws making soft thumps against the cold ground, a rhythm steady as the heartbeat of some great, slumbering beast below. My mission was singular: Chicken nuggets. I’ve roamed too far and through too much to be stymied by an apocalyptic hiccup.

Nearing Whiskers and Wings, the smell of savory delights clashed with the silence like a sledgehammer on tofu. It was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, then deep-fried and dipped in barbecue sauce. Where was everyone?

That’s when I saw it – a sign swinging at The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, crookedly inviting anyone who passed by to a meeting. A town hall, if we could be so grandiose. And I figured, why not? Perhaps they’ve got chicken nuggets.

As I made my way to Lower Golden Gate Gardens, I found my ragtag assembly of comrades – Rosie, tail wagging at Mach speed, Baxter with his stoic sniff, and a cadre of other canine cohorts. The meeting was about Spencerville, about us, about what comes after the apocalypse for those already in the aftermath.

They talked and barked and somehow even purred about plans and purposes, but all I could think about was my humble dream: a little fast food and a romp with “The Companion.” Ah, to be a dog with simple longings in a complex world.

Then, as if by some ungainly miracle, the humans were mentioned – our former owners. The silence that followed was respectful, the sort of quiet reserved for the moment before the leash clicks off and the door swings open. We missed them, every last wagging one of us. But we were okay, knowing that reunion lay somewhere down life’s long, winding, and somewhat chewed-up road.

So the meeting dissolved, like salt in the rain, and I sauntered back to that haven of culinary splendor and indulged in nuggets – a canine siren song, as delicious as the day is long. Even in this quintessential post-apocalyptic life, notwithstanding the longing and the loss, Spencerville provided.

And in those savory bites, in those moments between now and what’s to come, there’s, oddly enough, hope. I, Ellie, along with my friends in Spencerville, carried on. Because let’s face it, in a world that’s seen everything go to the dogs, what’s left to do but stick together and enjoy the little things?

Broccoli, though, remains a crime against canine kind. Some things never change, apocalypse or not.

The End.