Hey Mom, it’s your little lady, Sammie, texting from the tail end of an adventure. Pawsburgh’s gone quiet, a real doggy dystopia! I roam the memories and guard the legacy of our once yappy community. I’m living a pug’s tale, equal parts historian and lone wolf (well, lone pug), paying tribute to the days of barks and wags. Hugs to you, and save a chicken treat for me. Love, Sammie 🐾💖 #PugLife #QueenOfTheQuietTown

I find myself, on what could be construed as a tepid Friday evening (or was it Monday? The days here in Pawsburgh are as hard to catch as a slippery treat under the couch), trotting down the abandoned remnants of once bustling thoroughfares—now a constellation of scents and memories.

‘Twas a time, not so long ago, when Jade Jack Russell Junction thrummed with the yaps and yips of my fellow canines. But fate, ever fickle, has left our haven for hounds hushed in a post-apocalyptic hush—save for the pitter-patter of decidedly dainty pawsteps belonging to yours truly, Sammie.

Once, I bore witness to frolicsome friends at Harrier Harbor, romping in the surf. I, of course, never partook of such activities; the waves, an affront to my scholarly disposition, merely beckoned for the folly of the rambunctious and the young.

With Butch by my side, we’d scoff at the buffoonery from the solid ground of Mastiff Meadows, a place that once echoed with the cacophony of barks and howls until the sun begrudgingly gave way to the moon.

But now, these grounds stand in tragic tranquility, a Theban play for the four-legged. The golden weave of the sun’s rays broken only by the occasional rustling through the Pawfect Training Center’s shattered windows, or the unclaimed treats scattered outside the Bark-n-Bite Bistro.

“Ah, Butch,” I’d muse aloud, though no response ever came, “do you remember the savory scent of Canine Kabobs?” Sure as my muzzle is smushed, his silence affirmed the memories circling like vultures over a feast not to be.

Now, each day, a trifle more silent, a trifle more solitary. But fear not for me, for I am Sammie—the wisest pug, a sailor of sands, a navigator of the nebulous. I prowl the vistas of our town like a specter, a remembrance of the lively and the loved.

The Dapper Dog Salon mirrors, forever unflaunted by passersby, reflect only my antiquated image, my squishy face framed perfectly in the dusty glass. “What an elder stateswoman you’ve become,” the specters would whisper, were they polite enough to address a lady of my tenure thusly.

Best in Show Photography, once a bustling spot where the proud would parade their pups, now but a silent gallery. My younger self hangs upon the wall, aloof, surrounded by my nine proud progeny.

In another life, there were the irksome assaults on my gentle ears—vacuums, rain, and the godforsaken ear cleanings. Who would have guessed such nuisances would hold a place in the heart yearning for ordinary days?

Vegetables? Still a plague. Chicken? My heart flutters at the thought. A good game of tug-of-war stirs the embers of nostalgia, yet here, without my beloved Butch, the joy feels empty.

My retreats are not of the past; they remain the beach, the sand—my canvas for mourning and remembrance. I wander there, leaving a trail for ghosts to follow.

Even in a world such as ours, fraught with silence and vacant dreams, I saunter on. For what are fellows such as you and I, but a collection of tales wrapped in fur, padding through the legacies we’ve crafted?

Remember my words, friends; remember Sammie. My pawprints may fade from these empty streets, but the stories, the love, the spirit of Pawsburgh—these shall never capitulate to the quietude of forgotten dog days.

The End.