Hey Mom,

Crazy day in Spencerville – acted as the bulldog overlord at Chihuahua Castle, battled the Lower Dalmatian Desert, and devoured a chicken thigh sans carrots (score for us pups!). Skipped through Buttercup Meadows and strategized with the pack for possible cat-astrophes. Life’s pawsome post-apocalypse. Tail wags and snuggles!

-Big Mac 🐾✨

Ah, another crescent of daylight seeping through the curtains of the beyond – or what one might refer to as the heavenly drapes, if one were inclined to poetic waxing, which, for the record, I often am. Let me take you on a trot through my rather extraordinary existence here in Spencerville, a post-apocalyptic haven for the likes of me and my cohorts.

You see, my dear chum, I’m not your average tail-wagging four-footer. I’m Big Mac, bulldog extraordinaire, striding across a world remarkably transformed, yet chipper to its very core. It wasn’t always thus; there was a time when a juicy chicken thigh sizzling on a human’s barbie was my highest aspiration. But times have changed, and so must we.

Since the Event – a rather dramatic moniker, I must admit – Chihuahua Castle has become my unofficial headquarters. Quite the eclectic establishment, if I do say so myself, with its turrets serenely jutting towards the heavens, rather oblivious to the chaos of yesteryears.

Upon waking in my surprisingly comfortable canopy bed – no doggy baskets for this gentleman – I embark on my daily constitutional to the Chow Hound Café. The trek is fraught with the perilous drama of the Lower Dalmatian Desert. One must always have one’s wits about them amidst the sandbox of eternity, or one might find oneself in a sand-trap designed for a colossal canine jape.

They serve a mean chicken thigh at the café, seared with gusto, evoking the rich fragrance of life before the Event. I consume this with poise and ravenous elegance, my sagacious jowls trembling with each bite. Food here is a tad better, knowing the carrots have been mercilessly banished from the known universe (a personal victory).

A jaunt with Skip and Duchess is customary after our meal. Skip entertains us with tales of escapades, each one more embellished than the next, while Duchess imparts her wisdom wrapped in enigmas, as only a Beagle philosopher-queen can. We pass through Buttercup Meadows, where I often let loose with a rollick among the dewy filaments of green.

My troop of siblings await at home, assembling in the strategic genius of resistance, for one never knows when one must stand (or sit) against a potential uprising of the feline variety. We live in harmonious disarray, each member of the clan as brindle-bold and roguish as the last.

This first-person prose, my dear reader, is merely a snippet of the anomalous anecdote that is my life in Spencerville. And let me tell you, between our hearty pursuits of preserving pieces of the past, while marching, or I should say pawing, forward into the future, there’s nary a dull moment.

So there you have it – my account, a somewhat splendid narrative of living in a near-perfect world of eternal pets, waiting ever so patiently for the ultimate reunion, with spirits undamped and tales vigorously untamed.

The End.

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