Hey Mom,

Spent the night unraveling a dog-pocalypse mystery with the crew, turns out it was just a case of missed wake-up calls for the humans. We armed ourselves with chew toys and hotdogs before bravely guarding the Pyrenean Peak. No actual disasters, just a wild night in Pawsburgh. Home now, belly full, tail wagging, ready for another adventure tomorrow!

Wags and licks,
Timber 🐾😎

The sun had called it quits, but I, Timber, with a coat of many colors, a husky of Pawsburgh, laid wide-eyed in my basket. You see, I’d overheard whispers of a peculiar pandemonium sweeping through the furry streets – I’m quite sure dogs aren’t supposed to ride skateboards or knit scarves. But in Pawsburgh, rules are more like guidelines; you ought to see the Shar-Pei Shores on a “casual” Friday.

I decided it was imperative to investigate. So, with the stealth of a cat burglar – don’t let the dogs know I said that – I made my Great Escape from my owner’s house and trotted towards the mystical Saluki Sands. It was there I stumbled upon Beagle, Retriever, and even the cheeky cats, all looking as bewildered as a squirrel on a treadmill.

“Zombie apocalypse,” Beagle barked out between heavy pants.

“I heard it’s a virus coming from the citruses,” mewed the siamese, tail twitching nervously. Ha! Not even the apocalypse can make citrus appealing to me.

Retriever, wise as he is old, just rolled his brown eyes. “That’s tomfoolery. We just forgot to wake up our humans this morning. Dogs do that; it’s like reverse psychology, or so I’ve heard.”

“Regardless,” I interjected, “we need supplies. To The Doggy Depot!”

The night was as still as a breath held tight, the only sounds our paws pat-patting on the cobblestones of Pawsburg, which were surprisingly free of the dire drama predicted. We arrived at The Doggy Depot to stock up on necessities. My dear chew toys, faithful knights in the toy chest of life, were waiting. The glee shook my tail with such vigor I worried I’d take off like a furry, multi-colored helicopter.

Next was Hound’s Hotdogs, where Tubes of Meat – as I call it in my dog vernacular – awaited. I fancied a chicken sausage; after all, one must maintain strength in dire times.

The owner, a Dalmatian with a flair for culinary arts, served us with his usual gusto, clearly unaware of the dog-pocalypse. “Dashing as ever, Timber. Will it be chicken tonight?”

Predictable? Maybe. Satisfied? Absolutely. Beagle and the cats opted for the usual, while Retriever mutter-groused about the lack of a good steak.

Fed and somewhat prepared, we set out to mount our defense at Pyrenean Peak – the high ground advantage a must in any apocalyptic scenario. The view was heart-stopping, even if we were facing imaginary hordes of undead felines or was it poodles? The narrative shifted subtly like Beagle’s concentration.

“Picture this,” I told them. “You’re a pet, fiercely independent, as sophisticated as a David Sedaris monologue, strutting the high-glittering ruins of a world once full of postmen and vacuum cleaners.”

They all squinted, Beagle now sitting in quiet reflection, the cats preening each other, and Retriever, well, he was snoring, dreams of dig-worthy holes perhaps.

Dawn broke, splashing golden light on my kaleidoscopic fur. It seemed our stand-off with an absent enemy had ended not with a growl, but a collective canine yawn.

Humans began to emerge, sleepy-eyed, looking for their adventurous pets. The turmoil of the night was chalked up to a collective dream, fuelled by one extra treat, or maybe just the magic that hugs the streets of Pawsburgh after dark.

With a wag of my tail, I led my cohort of adventurers home. Our courage unquestioned, our bellies full, and our stories wildly embellished, just waiting to be whispered into the ears of our beloved, none-the-wiser humans.

The End.

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