Hey, it’s Lip! Just a quick tail wag from the leader of the Pawsburgh pack. Today, Sprout and I trotted through Pointer Pier, scavenged a silent rubber chicken (victory!), and bantered with Whiskers the cat about canine optimism. We’re sniffing out a new world, where hope’s our leash and dreams our wild runs. Survival? It’s in our blood. We don’t have thumbs, but we’ve got hearts big enough to rebuild this place. The dogs are taking over, and honestly, it’s kinda pawsome. Keep your snout to the wind. – Lip 🐾

Ah, the smell of battered dust as it settles yet again, and the sound of paws over broken concrete – that’s what wakes me each brisk morning in what was once the rumbustious Pawsburgh. I’m Lip, the semi-brindle boxer-bullmastiff mix, with a heart loyal as the North Star and just as steadfast.

This morning, like every morning since the sky cracked open and humans became but a fond memory, I saunter out to inspect my domain. Sprout the spaniel is beside me in a heartbeat, tail wagging in a blur – he always looks on the bright side of the apocalypse.

“Morning Lip,” he barks cheerfully.

“I told you, Sprout, not until I’ve had my water,” I growl in good spirits, lapping from an old shoe filled with yesterday’s rain.

Pointer Pier is our destination today; the scavenging there has been good to us dogs of perseverance. We tread carefully, for the sheepdogs once kept this territory and they’re not known for their charity.

“Ever wonder what the humans would think,” Sprout muses, his head cocked, “seeing us trot about, fetching our future?”

I ponder this, my eyes a mirror to the long-gone wisdom of my previous owner, who’d spin yarns about heroics and heart. With a grunt, I dismiss the thought. Humans, with their thumbs and fancies, were no better at surviving than we are.

On the outskirts of Terrier Town, the once-cheery Doggie Diner hangs its sign crookedly, whispering of aromas past. I remember steak, juicy and succulent, a memory that causes a guttural growl of longing to form in my throat.

“Let’s move,” I bark, pushing the nostalgia aside.

The trek is quiet, our paws tracing the patterns of nature taking the unnatural back, until Pointer Pier looms, its sea-stained timbers sagging but secure.

“Quiet,” I order, not out of danger but reverence. Here by the sea, serenity reigns. We aren’t here to disturb; we’re here to endure.

Diligently, we search. The ruins provide little, until, “Bingo!” Sprout exclaims, emerging with his mouth full of rubber – the remnants of a rubber chicken, its squawk silent but its service continuing in this new world order.

Pride-filled, we strut back to Pawsburgh proper. Along the way, we’re joined by Whiskers, the elder-statescat, who’d somehow slipped the human yoke even before the world tipped sideways.

“You dogs,” he purrs. “Always optimistic that a chew toy will rebuild society.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” I reply. “Hope, my whiskered friend, is not just our strategy; it’s our survival.”

As the sun seeks its bed and the stars take the stage, we settle among the ruins that we’ve clawed back for our own. The Howling Husky Hardware Store stands, a testament to dogged determination; The Barking Boutique hides treasures we’ve yet to unearth.

I share my tales and dreams with Sprout and Whiskers, their presence a comfort, their friendship an anchor.

In this stripped-down world where lemons don’t grow and the steaks have all but vanished, we thrive. For hope is a powerful, playful thing, and survival is, after all, our breed’s game.

Lying there, amidst the camaraderie of friends and the reclaiming of lands, I let my mind wander off-leash. Dreams may not bring back the humans, but who’s to say we need them to rebuild? The world has gone to the dogs, but that’s not a dreadful thing. In fact, it’s quite the opportunity.

The End.