Hey Mom,

Just a quick bark from Spencerville! Imagine if my paws had thumbs—I’ve become a bit of a legend here. I lead the Rough Collar Crew, and we’re rewriting the rulebook of the game called Life, post-humans. Uprooted from the lap of luxury, I’ve found real joy in freedom and the company of my pack. I may be a Fruitbat in this dog-eat-dog world, but my spirit’s soaring higher than ever! 🐾

Licks and wags,
Freddy

So it goes, that a tail waggin’ in one world is a soul marchin’ in another. There’s me, Freddy, and here’s Spencerville after the end of all those things that used to matter to folks with thumbs and worries.

The sky above Labradoodle Lake was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel, ’cause turns out, pups ain’t so fond of techie stuff, after all. I remember mom’s hand, the one that I ain’t felt in a dog’s age, but that’s okay, really.

We’re doin’ the livin’ thing here, no bones about it. Got businesses with names whimsical enough to make a cat laugh. Tail Waggers does a brisk business, on account of tails not ceasing their merry swish-swishing despite the world’s dimming lights.

I was sitting at Yappy Yogurt, nursing a bowl of the chicken and beef swirl, which was a sort of gray goop, but to a tongue not bound by human pretense, it was ambrosia. A Jack Russell barked something about fantasy football. Fantasy, indeed.

One day, the sun baked the earth like a tray of cookies left in too long, and the structures we all lived around crumbled. Us pets, let loose from the cuddles and constraints of what once was, found ourselves wandering a world made strange.

This here ‘pocalyptic carnival, though, it suits me just fine. Freed from the echoing grumble of vacuums and the ghastly splash of bathwater, I jaunt around with a band of mutts, call ’em the Rough Collar Crew. We roam the stark snout-friendly landscapes, sharing tales of the sprightly squeak of toilet paper rolls and the daring escapes from the vet’s noose.

You’d think we’d despaired in the aftermath, but Spencerville’s hearty souls aren’t so easily shook. Why, the Golden Gate Gardens now truly live up to their name, with sunsets that’d make you beg for more. And at Poodle Pond, where the waters whisper of mysterious depths, I’ve learned to paddle against the current of my own distaste. Swimming ain’t so bad when it’s on your terms, see.

Our picaresque romp through the ruins isn’t without its perils. While we flip snoots at fabled threats like “Rover Reapers,” we find true test in scavenging the delectable remnants of The Woofy Bakery. The smell of stale biscuits leading the way, our bellies rumble allegiance to the scavenger’s life.

With each dawn, creakin’ on hinges unseen, us walking pets paw the line between the domesticated yesterdays and the wild tomorrows. There’s Bandit, a slobberin’ chum, and of course, Miss Whiskers, who ain’t a dog, but this ain’t no time for holdin’ grudges.

We’ve got our own legends now, ones with less fetched sticks and more forged paths through this ever-tailspin world. Reunions ain’t pressing; we’re scribing our storyboard.

“Why d’you reckon we’re here, Freddy?” asked Lulu, her head cocked like she had caught the scent of existentialism.

I pondered, then shrugged. “There’s the rub, Lulu. We’re here ’cause here is where the heart trots. And mine, well, it’s off-leash.”

So if you’re out there wonderin’ whether tails wag in Spencerville, they do—same as anywhere else. But here, there’s an echo of somethin’ more in the waggin’. It’s the gusto of living sans chains, enjoying every frisbee flung from providence.

And it’s a life I tongue-lolling love, in a chocolate-brown-fur kind of way.

The End.

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