Hey Dad,

Just a typical day in Spencerville – conquered the Westie Woods quest with Fenway for some prime squeaky toys, like the brave bulldog I am. This place may be a shadow of its old self, but together, we’re redefining doggy duty post-Kerfuffle. We’re crafting a tail-wagging future, one chewed tire at a time. Rolling in rubbery riches now, but still miss your belly rubs.

Catch you after my victory nap,
Russell

It’s a typical morning in post-apocalyptic Spencerville, and let me tell you, every sunrise here is a bit like snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. Or is it snatching breakfast from the jaws of Dad’s fridge? I can never remember. I poke my snout out from under the safety of my blanket; the blanket isn’t absolutely necessary, mind you, but it adds a flair of domesticity to the wilds of our new world.

My bed’s a bit deflated these days, courtesy of the Great Kerfuffle—that’s what we call the event that left us in this nearly perfect hodgepodge of pets and makeshift civility. But it’s nothing a good, hearty shake can’t fix. Speaking of which, Fenway’s already at the door, his stubby tail thumping with the news of today’s escapades. We forgo the usual pleasantries—the world’s too topsy-turvy for small talk.

“Russell, ol’ boy!” he barks, the Oklahoma twang thicker than the dust on Main Street’s forgotten treadmills. “There’s a rumor that Westie Woods has a new stock of squeaky toys! Whaddya say? Adventure beckons!”

I grunt in affirmation, my heart skipping a beat. Squeaky toys are worth their weight in dog biscuits these days, and let me assure you, dog biscuits are the currency de jure in our little canine utopia.

We trot through town, the ruins of the Sniff ‘n’ Snack—now a communal kitchen—on our left and the once-grand Furry Friends Art Gallery on our right, windows shattered but the artwork surprisingly pristine. It speaks to the innocence and resilience of Spencerville’s souls: apricot poodles next to spotted dalmatians—all rendered in watercolor and determination.

As we scavenge the woods, avoiding the ominous patch of land that once upon a time hosted a contraption humans called a “vacuum cleaner”—I still shudder at the very thought—I spy a reflection of myself in a puddle, looking every bit the adventurous bulldog I am. Yes, there are things about Spencerville that make me long for the days of belly rubs and ‘Fetch,’ but there’s a charm to this rugged existence.

“Fenway, my man,” I say, our steps in sync as we delve deeper into the shady embrace of the woods, “did I ever tell you about the time I chewed through a whole tire?”

His laugh—raspy and infectious—fills the air. “Only every time we find something round and rubbery!”

We laugh, the sound mingling with the echoes of a Spencerville that once was. But it’s through these shared moments and memories that we’re slowly stitching together the fabric of a society that’s ours to rebuild.

By the time we return, our mouths are tired from carrying our bounty of squeaky treasures, and I admit, my paws are feeling the mileage. Boxer Beach’s sand would be the perfect balm, or perhaps a quick visit to Tail Waggers for a celebratory nibble—but no, today, I have other plans.

I curl up in my not-so-inflated bed, the spoils of our adventure in proud display around me and Mugsy snuggled close. Fenway collapses beside us, each breath a silent victory. Sure, there’s the odd whiff of greasy fast food clinging to the air from foraging survivors—I wrinkle my nose—but it’s nothing a well-timed nap can’t fix.

And in that moment, I realize that the heart of Spencerville isn’t in the shops or the grub; it’s in the spirit of pups like us, braving the new, crafting the tale of “what comes next” with paws muddied and hearts bold.

So here’s to the next day, and the many that will follow. In Spencerville, we make do, we make merry, and above all, we make memories. Because when you’ve got friends and squeaky toys, what more do you really need? Well, maybe an extra nap or two, but let’s paw that page when we get to it.

The End.