Hey buddy,

Pawsburgh’s lead actor here, the one and only Dozer. Took a scholarly stroll through the ruins, flipped some pancakes at dawn with the crew, and surfed the dunes of reflection. Building a canine utopia, one tail wag at a time. Miss our two-legged friends, but finding new rhythms in the quiet. We’re surviving, thriving and keeping memories alive in this brave new world. Catch you at sunrise.

Best sniffs,
Dozer 🐾

In the wake of the great howl, a cataclysm that stripped the two-legged tyrants from our world, Pawsburgh became more than a whispered fairy bark – it became our refuge, our bastion, our dusty stage. And I, Dozer, anointed myself the thespian, cavorting through this stage with my squeaky companion, the less-flamboyant-now flamingo.

Topaz Terrier Town was particularly poignant today, the ruins of old human constructs the perfect backdrop to our new dog-eat-dog world. I trotted past The Tail Wagger’s Tailor—what a place it once was, fitting the fanciest in canine couture. But as civilization hobbled back on four legs, the flair for fashion waned. Survival was the new black.

I found solace, humour even, in the quietude. “No more clanging, no more clamor,” I’d mutter, my snout turned skyward. The fear of loud noises, my own personal thundercloud, had dissipated along with the bombs and the bangs. The humans, bless their souls, left us with silence—a silver lining I embraced most heartily.

Harrier Harbor, once abuzz with seafaring hounds, brimmed with a different energy now: determination. I’d catch canines casting lines into the expansive sea we once took for leisure, desperation marring their furrowed brows. They’d turn and nod at me, Dozer, the loyal, the resilient, as I lumbered along the docks.

Perhaps even more than the need for survival, we craved tradition. Life’s simple pleasures, served sunny side up. So, every sunup, Paw-lickin’ Pancakes, a relic reminding us of better times, sizzled with the scent of comradeship. Once again, it boasted a pack. My pack.

“Tell me, Dozer,” Max, a spry Schnauzer with specs perched precariously on his muzzle, had once asked me over a pancake breakfast, “how do we go on?”

“With each other, Max, we rebuild,” I’d said with a scoff of a chortle, my frayed flamingo pressed under my paw for emphasis, “One pancake at a time, my dear fellow.”

Today, the dunes called to me. Diamond Doberman Dunes—a misnomer if there ever was one, yet amidst the dappled shadows of the playground of old, I found my sanctuary. Figures danced upon the sandy stage, casting elongated shadows that told stories taller than their tails could wag. Every slide down the dunes felt like a step closer towards something like normalcy, whatever that word even means now.

And then, under the cacophony of paws thundering across sand, a whisper—a murmur of nostalgia for those who once held my leash. The bittersweet symphony of what was and what is nipped at my floppy ears.

“Oh, Mom, Dad,” I’d dream aloud, to no one and everyone, the ruffians of the dunes my silent confidants. “Perhaps you marvel at us from your celestial kennel, proud as you watch your Dozer take on the world, one broken squeak at a time.”

The wind kissed my muzzle, and I inhaled deeply, the spirit of Pawsburgh alive within me. At the crest of the highest dune, I stood, shoulders broad and heart strong. “To the fallen two-leggers, my admission—I have found beauty in the rubble of your world,” I solemnly declared to the wind.

I wandered back as twilight sang its siren song, the stars blinking into existence like fireflies caught in an eternal chase, a beacon for the future of Pawsburgh. And there I lay, in the comfort of my dreams, a simple bulldog with a story to weave and a voice to echo through the wild silence.

“Adventure,” I mused, as sleep nipped at my consciousness, “is never far with Dozer.”

The End.