Hey Mom & Dad,

Just a quick tail-wag from Pawsburg! Acting as the local jester-knight, keeping spirits up and quests going amidst the fur-flying times here. Today’s treasure hunt: a classic rubber ball and reminiscing our Frisbee glory days. Hope all’s pawsome on your end. Will keep sniffing out adventures and guarding our turf.

Wags & Woofs,
Bubs 🐾😉💕
P.S. We’re all good in the new world order—fur real!

There comes a whisper, half-heard, in the rustle of leaves by night—a murmur through the scattered ruins of what once was, in the halcyon days of unbridled mirth and the reigning sovereignty of Frisbees. But there is a new order in Pawsburg, and indeed, it is I, Cash, who meanders these changed streets where the scent of adventure is tinged with the odour of forgotten dog biscuits.

A romp across the waking world of the past—this was Pawsburg, where fur-friends frolicked at the foot of Malamute Mountain and shared a tail-wag over a slice at Pooch’s Pizzeria. But now, the once vibrant, gastro-havens lay silent. To be a dog in these times! A stoic necessity has taken us, where biscuits and bones became as precious as the lingering phantom of a pat on the head.

Just yesterday, or perhaps the day before, time guarding its passage tightly as a hound with a bone, I met with Monty, the Boxer, and Bella, the wise Labrador, at the formerly grand Doggie Daycare. Under the baleful gaze of the peculiar new moon, we traded stories as we scavenged, finding solace in the camaraderie that sustained our spirits as kibble once did our bellies.

With my friends at my flank, we set out from Terrier Town towards the unclaimed frontier of Bloodhound Bluffs. We preferred the open space, now more than ever, avoiding tight corners where shadows might hold more than whispers. On with our expedition, our humble party; me, embracing my role as both jester to lift their spirits and knight to defend our right to this life.

We ventured where foliage claimed dominion over concrete, twining around the abandoned hulls of Whippet Wraps. Such apocalyptic sparseness, a testament to nature reclaiming what was once hers, and we, the solemn witnesses to her might. My friends and I searched this new wild for scarce treasures once mundane—a tattered leash, a chewed-up tennis ball, treasures indeed in our post-apocalyptic museum.

As dawn stretched its subtle light over the shattered silhouette of Pawsburg, I discovered something, an echo from a life less complicated, wedged in the ruins of The Barking Boutique—a rubber ball. Though weathered, it held the history of a thousand games, each bounce a sonnet of the past.

In the poignant solitude of Pawsburg, I set the ball before me. With a paw, I rolled it ahead. Its journey was not far, merely a few feet, but I watched as it settled, in uncharacteristic stillness. Monty woofed a low, heartfelt sentiment, and Bella nuzzled her snout against my hind leg—knights we may be, but solemnity had touched our day.

“Off to Pawsome Pet Pharmacy,” I suggested, more for the kinship of the journey than the yield of the destination. Perhaps we would find a healing salve for our hearts amongst the scattered remnants. Or perhaps not, but the value is in the quest, the shared trot through this quiet world.

This is Pawsburg now—grander tales retold as whispers, the memories of tug-of-war fading in the mind like the last notes of a serenade at sunset. But fear not, dear reader from another life, for we are dogs, creatures of resilience, instinct, and boundless love. Today’s Pawsburg may be silent, a land changed, but it is still ours—where our four paws tread, there too walks our spirit, undiminished.

And so we continue, with hearts undeterred in a world reborn under a blanket of stars. We navigate the remains with noses to the wind, ever searching, ever hopeful, our tales yet unwritten by Jerome, or any other, for our paws pen the truest stories in the dust of what once was, and what will one day be again.

The End.