Hey buddy,

Plot twist: it’s Dozer the accidental hero in a once bustling Pawsburgh turned ghost town. Every dog’s MIA and our tails aren’t wagging. Now leading a band of dazed canine comrades, we’re sniffing out a mystery where ‘Mom & Dad’ could be the key. Stay tuned, human–this tale’s bound for a happy tail. 🐾

– Dozer the Bulldog Detective

I remember a rather peculiar afternoon in Pawsburgh, when the shadows seemed to stretch longer than usual and the air had a bite that spoke of impending oddities. The humans had trudged off to their lives beyond our comprehension, doubtlessly to return smelling of the outer world—that blend of steel, sweat and sweet wrappers.

After nudging open the portal beneath the sink, where the humans store their foul-tasting potions and detergents, I trotted the familiar path to Opal Pomeranian Park. Yet today, an instinct in my chunky, American Bulldog form signaled to exercise caution. To be fair and square, I’m not the unnerved kind; an odd shiver here and there about the spine does not quite induce a state of trepidation in me. I chew upon the fact much like I do with my beloved squeaky toy—a rancorous sound to most, a symphony to my floppy ears.

The park was deserted. No wagging tails graced the horizon; no bark of playful delight broke the silence. Had to wonder, it did seem fishy, and it wasn’t the scent of Canine Kabobs wafting through the air. How odd to be in such usually thriving surrounds, now a tableau of eerie quietude. This was, ostensibly, my first clue that our Pawsburgh has morphed into something unrecognizable—a canopy of suspense hanging over it like the time the human tied a floating balloon to my collar—perplexing and intriguing in equal measure.

Taking my time with Pyrenean Peak in my sights, I braved the vacant boulevards usually bustling with all breeds and sizes. The loquacious Springer Spaniels, comical Pugs, and imperious Afghan Hounds all were conspicuous by their absence. By the time I reached the peak, a realization struck me with the force of a thrown stick—every dog had vanished. Not vanished but—what’s the word? Teleported, perhaps? That’s a notion to chew upon.

Imagine my surprise, then, when the Snooty Snout Boutique, beacon of the finickiest fashion, lay plundered—one might think the Beagles got into it again, mistaking feather boas for terribly fancy rabbits. And The Wagging Tail Bookstore bore the marks of distress—books strewn about, “The Art of War” open wide (a fine choice, if combat with boredom is the intent).

It dawned on me—Pawsburgh had turned into a deserted stage, and here I was, cast as the accidental protagonist. Something disconcerting, post-apocalyptic even, was afoot. And doesn’t it just do your head in, not being the wisest about what your four paws have walked into?

That’s when they appeared, specters at first, then solidified into scruffy, unkempt versions of once-pristine Pomeranians and regal Rottweilers. They ambled with a purposeless determination, as though they searched for something they’d once buried and could no longer sniff out.

It’s tricky to say whether the apprehension felt by them matched mine; I, Dozer by name, Dozer by nature, felt neither an urge to flee nor confrontation. Perhaps, like the good Jerome K. Jerome’s prose, it was worth ruminating that even our world has its trials and tribulations.

I mustered up all the canine chivalry my brown and white patchwork coat could display. Moving towards them, ears erect and tail firm, I discerned the confusion in their eyes—it seemed their humanity, or rather, their dogmanity, had gone walkies. With no loud noises to rattle my senses, nor culinary distractions, my resolve stood strong.

“Where have you lot been?” my inquiry raised no more than a whimper among them.

There was a task here, a purpose formulating itself in our muddled minds. To track the source of this shift, to restore the wag to our tails and the unfettered joy to our hearts. Could it be that the sense of human companionship—the ‘Mom & Dad’ in our lives—held the key to unraveling this canine conundrum?

Well, we never did think much of their world while snug in our beds, yet, as I led my new pack towards whatever awaited, I could not help but marvel at how closely tied our tales were with the two-legged storytellers asleep in their unfathomable domains. And, just between us speaking creatures, I had a gut feeling that just beyond Chowhound’s Chophouse, salvation awaited, wagging its tail furiously.

The End.