Hey there!

Just a quick tail-wag from Baby, Spencerville’s agile Shih Tzu guardian against the rogue zombie chihuahuas in our quirky doggy dystopia. Still savoring grilled chicken memories, strategizing on pizza table maps, and keeping the spirit of play alive with my trusty blue ball. Our paws might pad over ruins, but our hearts beat to the rhythm of hope. Catch you on the yappy side!

Barks & Licks,
Baby 🐾✨

Under the milky veneer of twilight, my four paws step with an elegance that belies the frayed edges of Spencerville, a once-cherished haven where the bark of joy has turned into a lament of shadows. But I, Baby, the nimble Shih Tzu with a coat like frothy java and a knack for élan even in disarray, have my own tale in this scruffy world, woven into the very fabric of the legacy I build with each artful dodge of wayward twigs—and the occasional rogue zombie chihuahua.

In the post-apocalyptical echo of Spencerville, where humans once roamed and scratched behind our ears, we nimble beasts have fashioned a life, a society of wagging tails and surreptitious sniffs. We reside in the quaint vestiges of our former homes, within the crumbled remains of our humans’ love.

Labradoodle Lake has taken on a new sheen, the reflections of those who venture too close haunted by the ripples of their lost companions. Here, it is our pleasure to take our evening constitutionals, a gaggle of us, darting to and fro, while keeping a keen eye on the lapping shores for those hounds who may have turned.

Marley, dear chap, has lost none of his bravado. His booming bark now serves as a clarion call to warn of advancing peril, his former penchant for chasing mail carriers now tuned to the fine art of undead pursuit. The Cocker Spaniel twins, Lily and Lulu, still weave tales with wagging tongues, though no longer of the neighborhood scandals. Instead, they spin stories of narrow scrapes and brave cunning that keep our collective spirits afloat.

As for me, my days of chasing squirrels have morphed into a rather more thrilling occupation. Those erratic, feral creatures of bushy tails have, in this brave new world, become allies. In our shared survival, we have discovered an unspoken bond—me in my frolicks of yore, and they in their wild gambols, all of us united against the groaning, staggering hordes.

Tail Waggers, once a beacon for savory indulgences, now stands as a fortress of camaraderie, where we strategize on the terrace with marked hustle, nibbling on provisions of necessity. Pupperoni Pizza’s ovens are cold, but the tables yet serve a purpose, maps scrawled in pepperoni grease—a testament to both our resilience and our refusal to relinquish that greatest of canine pleasures: sustenance.

My blue rubber ball, a relic of the before-times and companion through countless escapades, has survived as a symbol of hope, battered but forever buoyant. It is my reminder that even as the world has gone to the hounds, so to speak, the joy of play remains unextinguished.

My palate, ever discerning, holds dear the flavor of grilled chicken, scavenged from what remains of Furrific Fried Chicken. The fires may have dimmed, but the ember of taste lingers on, while even the thought of a lemon still sends me scampering with the same disdainful sneeze. Some things, it seems, even in dire times, remain ever constant.

So as I ferry you through this vignette of a ruffled pup’s account, my gait unencumbered, my spirit undiminished, know that Spencerville lives on in soul, if not entirely in structure. It is a world where walking pets wander, where we wait not for owners but for the chapters yet to unfurl, undeterred by the peculiar hustle that surrounds us, living each day with the assurance of who we are, where we’ve come from, and the play that must always go on.

In the end, dear reader, should apocalyptic winds howl outside your window, imagine instead the sounds of Spencerville, where we four-legged scamps keep the rhythm of life trotting forward, as we weave through the twilight, zestful and unyielding, paws padding the streets of our own undying legend.

The End.