Hey Ma,

Just wanted to let ya know I’m doing just fine here in the quiet world – turned philosopher pooch, a regular Duke of Dalmatia. We’re keeping the spirit alive at The Bark Shak, feasts and ghost stories under starlight. Turns out the apocalypse ain’t too shabby with the right pack and a hefty stash of carrot caches.

Give it some time and I’ll fetch some good tales for ya. Until then, keep your tail wagging on the other side of the silent Howl-a-phone.

All my woofs,
Bubba Manns

In the crumbled remains of what once was, there I sit, Bubba Manns, watching dust motes dance through slanted sunbeams — a ballet of the quiet world. The Big Quiet, we call it. World’s gone utterly silent, like someone held a giant remote and pressed the mute button. No more cars, no more hustle, just the wind running its fingers through the shards of civilization.

I reminisce, sprawled upon my porch — well, what was a porch before the Big Quiet came along and decided porches were passé. It’s funny because it’s still my sun-soaked spot, just with a touch more… let’s call it rustic charm. And by rustic charm, I mean the occasional breeze-tossed newspaper from 2023, headlines now laughably quaint.

Speaking of quaint, have you ever noticed how, in the absence of human hubbub, your own thoughts become this rolling narrative, like a stream you can’t dam up, even if you wanted to? Well, mine are doing just that, swirling with memories of the Before Times, sprinkled with the grilled chicken moments and a side of gritty lemon mishaps.

I lick a paw, the roughness comforting, my mind’s eye catching the peppered spots on my coat. They always said black and white made gray, but I’ve found that in this new world, all the gray areas are streaks of color waiting to emerge. Take my friends, for example. Whiskers — whose idea of fun is a good toppled trash can — prances around like he owns the Tan Dalmatian Desert. Which, I suppose now, he does. And Duke, wise old golden soul, who knows stories of a time filled with more love than loss. He teaches the pups — ah, Bonnie and Clyde — that there’s a rhythm to life, even when the music’s stopped.

We band together, the skyline a jagged toothy grin behind us, trotting through Upper Collie Canyon because, well, what’s an apocalypse without a dramatic backdrop? There’s a briskness to the air, a sense of unfurling adventure, or maybe that’s just Rosie the rabbit, chattering on about her carrot hoard.

But even in this disjointed world, a world piecing itself together like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, we’ve found that life thrives. In The Bark Shak, we dine on the finest scavenged cuisine, licking our chops with no hint of decorum. Life is less Ruff-n-Ready, more… Improvise-n-Indulge.

We’re not alone, of course. Not with the souls meandering the overgrowth of the Woof and Whisker Wellness Center, no longer in need of wellness, but perhaps a passing pat. We linger as ghosts of our own stories, haunting familiar places like the Pooch Playhouse, where echoes of barks rise like specters, a haunting harmony to the hum of rebirth.

At night, in the gentle glow of the crumbled Bone Appetit, I catch my own reflection in a shard of glass — soulful amber eyes still aglow. We revel in our union, our Spencerville, a bastion amid bedlam. How curious it is to be a pet without a person, a Bully with just a hint of philosopher, pondering with a fold of an ear, as if Atlas shrugged and my left ear thought, ‘I’ll take it from here’.

I’ve learned one thing — well, a few things, but let’s not get carried away — in this Post-apocalyptic playground; you hold onto the joys you know, string them like pearls on a narrative, wear them like a collar. And with each new sunrise over the remains of Maple Street, we wait, watching, knowing one day, amidst rebirth or ruin, reunion will come. For now, we scamper through our days on paws and misadventures, for the night is quiet, but the stories… the stories are loud.

The End.

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