Hey there!

You wouldn’t BELIEVE what’s up in Pawsburgh. I’ve turned from porch royalty to top dog in charge of piecing together our tails. Think Mad Max meets Air Bud – bones instead of bullets, leashes turned to lumber. And, as always, peanut butter’s the glue of society. Stay pawsome and if you ever drop by, don’t forget the PB. 😉

Tails up,
Priscilla 🐾✨

The Unfurled Flags of Pawsburgh

The day the kibble crates fell from the sky, I was reclining on my porch, tongue lolling to the side in royal repose, as I often did. Unbeknownst to me, the world of humans had succumbed to the mysterious whims of fate, and so too would Pawsburgh change forever.

I awoke the next morn, to find my faithful subjects—sparrows and squirrels—eerily absent. Only the sizzling aroma of bacon, the very essence of that celestial place called Corgi’s Crepes, dared to tickle my bulldog snout.

With solemn determination, I, Priscilla, made my way towards Akita Alley. The streets were lined with abandoned chew toys and half-dug holes—an apocalyptic vision if ever there was one.

“Roscoe!” I barked as I reached the crossroads. The aforementioned Roscoe was perched atop Rottweiler Ridge, his form an unmistakable silhouette against the rising sun.

“Priscilla!” he called back, waving his tail as though it were a white flag at a duel of honor which had gone suspiciously out of hand. “The humans have vanished—gone to chase their tales into the ether, I presume.”

With an ethereal pull, my four-legged companions and I gravitated towards the Paw-tisserie. There, I sought counsel with my entourage. Baxter exuded a sheen of optimism that would put a freshly polished dog bowl to shame.

“We must rebuild!” Baxter exclaimed. “Assemble the council. Summon Whiskers!”

The old cat showed up with an air of having been accidentally invited to his own surprise party. “Rebuilding,” he meowed dolefully, “requires plans, and plans require effort. I’m rather against both.”

“Your wisdom never ceases to, erm, exist,” I muttered. If Whiskers was bothered, his expression didn’t show it, preoccupied with a blank stare off into the bleak abyss of his own indifference.

So, it fell upon my stately shoulders—adorned with fur as patchy as a map to untold treasures—to guide my fellows. Chaos was a poor bedfellow for a bulldog with the heart of a lion and the etiquette of high tea at Buckingham.

We paraded to The Doggie Daycare, now dubbed The Den of Reconstruction. From The Howling Husky Hardware Store, we gathered tools with no clear instruction manuals, and from Happy Hounds Dog Walking, we led ourselves, noting the vacancy of leashes.

“Priscilla, what should we begin with?” Roscoe inquired, clearly missing the subtle logic that underpinned my grand schemes.

I surveyed the scene, feeling a morsel of lemon-like dread in the pit of my stomach. Then it hit me: the simplicity of it all. “Peanut butter,” I declared with confidence that confused even me. “A society that shares peanut butter is a society at peace.”

Laughter might have boomed like Georgia’s, had humans been around to hear it. Instead, tail wags and tongue-lolls abounded as we shared our creamy treasure, passed paw to paw around the wreckage of our fallen utopia.

Ah, Pawsburgh—though teetering on the precipice of the unknown, we stood united, flags of determination (and the occasional slobber) marking the dawn of a new age. The age of bulldogs and their dauntless companions, rebuilding the world one squeaky squirrel at a time.

This is how we found ourselves—the survivors of Pawsburgh—struggling not against each other, but against the entropy of a world without mailmen to chase. With dignity and grace, and perhaps a bit of stubborn pride, we marched into the future, one paw print at a time. And if you ever find yourself wandering the brave new world of dogs…bring peanut butter.

The End.