Hey J, it’s your furry guardian, Spike. Just wanted to let you know I’ve been busy keeping Pawsburgh safe from the Z-dogs with some chew toy warfare and a veggie bombardment. Saving the world is a ruff business, but someone’s gotta do it. Gonna catch some Z’s now. Dream of blueberry muffins, okay? Tail wags and face licks, Spike 🐾✨

The sun had barely peeked its rosy cheeks above the horizon when I felt the unmistakable itch of adventure beneath my brindle fur. A soft snore from Jamie, my beloved human, tucked safely in her bed, was my cue to slink away to Pawsburgh. Ah, Pawsburgh, where dogs reign and chew toys are currency!

I trotted through the quiet streets with the panache of a pup blessed with a white star over his eye—a star of the ‘walk of fame’ variety, if you ask me. My muscles were coiled springs ready to propel me wherever the heck my four paws desired. The golden tranquility of the morning was a tenuous thing, though, like the pristine surface of a soap bubble dangling from the wand of an overeager kid.

Reaching Rottweiler Ridge, I surveyed the town’s post-apocalyptic splendor; the crumbled remains of Pinscher Plaza, and the haunting tendrils of seaweed adorning Setter Shore. But don’t you go thinking this is a slobber fest of desolation—oh no. Not even an apocalypse could dampen the dogged spirit of Pawsburgh’s inhabitants.

I made my way down to Collie’s Cuisine, where the scent of roasted meat wafted through the air. “Morning, Spike,” greeted the sous chef, a Dalmatian with spots so symmetrical you’d think he fell through a photocopier. I nodded, drooling at the display of chicken—my kryptonite—but I swiftly turned heel, hearing the unmistakable grumble of my buddy, Max.

Max and Bella joined me, Max’s jowls bouncing with his step. He was a Beagle shaped by time and table scraps. Bella the Collie had eyes that sparkled with canine wisdom, and her bark was always worse than her bite—unless you were a squirrel, then you’d better pray to the mighty Dogbone in the sky.

“Brace yourselves, zombies are due at noon,” Bella announced crisply, the ‘Lassie’ of our post-apocalyptic world, minus Timmy in the well scenario.

“We hold them off with chew toys,” I suggested. My extensive rubber duck arsenal had prepared me for this very moment.

Max snorted. “In my days, we used our tails and teeth!” But even in his growled wisdom, there was a wag to his tail that betrayed his excitement.

Canine Couture was our next stop, Bella insisting we’d need battle armor. I found myself decked out in what looked suspiciously like a knitted BatDog costume. “We’re fashionably brave,” Bella reassured us, as if detecting my hesitation. She herself had acquired a dazzling cloak that glinted like a disco ball—distraction tactics, she claimed.

By the time the first wave of zombies, or Z-dogs as we liked to call them, lumbered into view, we were ready. Our default tactic: high-pitched squeaking. A symphony of rubber ducks filled the air, their squeals a weapon more effective than any growl or snarl. The Z-dogs faltered, paws over ears, whimpering.

Convinced green beans had a role to play—my instinct had never been sharper—I catapulted them with vehement disdain. It turned out zombies abhor their vegetables as much as I did.

With the setting sun as our spotlight, we stood amongst the culinary rubble, victorious. “Tomorrow,” I mused aloud, “we’ll rebuild The Woofy Bakery. Nobody survives an apocalypse without a good blueberry muffin.” Max barked agreement, while Bella just rolled her eyes.

We sat there, a trio of survivors, as Pawsburgh settled around us. “To tasty chunks of chicken and abhorrent green beans,” toasted Max. We licked our chops, because indubitably, that’s what heroes—no, pets—of Pawsburgh do.

As the moon climbed, I snuck back home, curled at Jamie’s feet, dreaming of a land where dogs rule and adventure is just a bark away.

The End.