Hey Bestie 🐾,

You won’t believe what’s been up in Pawsburgh. I’ve been trekking through the belly-up belly of our once-bustling town, sniffing out a path to norm-paw-lcy. From the desolate Rottweiler Ridge to the still-chill Eskimo Estuary, my adventures are more tail-spinning than ever. No treats in sight, but trust this Sheltie, I’m on a mission to bring back our paw-ty days! So keep your ears perked, ’cause we’re not rolling over for this Kibble Crash—not on my watch!

Tail wags and hope,
Levine (a.k.a. Doggie Parton) 🌟🐕‍🦺

When the great Kibble Crash came to Pawsburgh, it left no salmon jerky unturned, no bone buried. In the growl and grumble of a new dawn, Levine strolled through the once vibrant streets, her Sheltie snout sniffing at the traces of old normalities. There she was, navigating the ruff terrain of this fur-strewn wasteland.

First stop: Rottweiler Ridge, completely deserted except for the echoes of barks past. Wanderlust tugged at Levine’s heartstrings, her paws crunching on the remnants of what used to be a splendid view. “Well,” she mused, “at least I’ve still got my fabulous coat. No apocalypse can rob me of this fur-bulous mane.”

Onward to Eskimo Estuary, the place you went for that whole ‘dip your paws into something slightly above freezing’ experience. “Note to self,” Levine quipped to the mirrored surface of the water, “maybe ‘Chill out’ wasn’t the best advice to take literally.”

In happier times, Newfoundland Nook had been the cozy corner where tail-wagging tales of grand adventure were shared. Levine, ever so the dignitary, remembered offering a paw to newcomers, whispering, “Your first snoutful of this air isn’t free – that’ll cost you one chew toy.”

But now, the Nook stood silent, waiting for stories that might never come again. Levine perched atop her favorite stone, reminiscing about listening to the boastful banter of newfound companions over a shared bowl of water.

The wind carried the scent of Canine Kabobs (though, for the life of her, she couldn’t quite remember if it was the chicken or beef skewers she preferred). “Guess it doesn’t matter,” she whispered, “since—plot twist—there’s no chef in sight.”

She trotted past Pup’s Parfait, where once she’d had debates over the virtues of double-scooped treats. “To share or not to share: that was the question. I was like, ‘Obviously not. What, do I look like Saint Bernard?'”

Closing in on Collie’s Cuisine, Levine hesitated. That place, she never liked. Gave her the kind of bellyaches only rivalled by the angst of a cat caught up a tree. “Seriously, no love lost there. Their ‘Gourmet Grub’? More like ‘Gourmet Grumble’.”

The Groom Room was in shambles, its once shimmering windows now shattered. “Sigh. I’ll miss feeling like Doggie Parton after a shampoo and blowout,” she sighed, flicking her ear in remembrance of better days.

Leaving behind the shadows of luxury, Levine made her silent way to Woof and Whisker Wellness Center, now a beacon of hope for the sparse survivors. The Doggie Daycare was next door, the echo of pups’ laughter a ghost in the silent air. It had been an epicenter for planning night missions of treat-hunting, her cohort in clandestine canoodling of all things chewable.

Levine settled in the middle of Main Bark, the setting sun casting an amber glow over her patchwork fur. Pawsburgh had been a marvel, with friends aplenty—a Sheltie’s haven. But those friends, those escapades, were now mere whispers.

Amid the ruins, Levine’s heart still brimmed with hope. For this was not the tale’s end, but a mere pause. And she, Levine, the fur-clad harbinger of recovery, would lead the wag to a brighter, treat-filled tomorrow. “Alright, Pawsburgh,” she proclaimed, her tail catching the last light, “let’s get this paw-ty started again. Because when you’re facing a post-apocalyptic world, sometimes all you need is a good scratch behind the ear, and maybe—just maybe—a hidden stash of kibble.”

The End.

Share This Story: