Hey Mom,

No need to adjust your glasses—I’m texting now. 😎 So, the world’s gone to the dogs (literally), and I, Oscar Boscorelli a.k.a. Little Man, am leading the funniest, furriest fight for survival ever. Think zombie squirrels, territorial Poms, and a Cat-ocracy I’m not joining. Found a crew, outsmarted the undead critters, and now I’m king of the doggy apocalypse from the luxury of South Siberian Summit. P.S. Could really use one of your chicken dinners right about now!

Wags & Whiskers,
Oscar 🐾

OMG, where do I even start? It’s like, one day you’re chasing your tail, living the plush life in some comfy human’s abode and the next, the world has gone completely bonkers—post-apocalyptic bonkers! So, here I am, Oscar Boscorelli, Spencerville’s suavest Bichon, diary-ing my paws off because, let’s face it, you just never know when your next epic tug-of-war is going to be, right?

Well, it’s a regular Tuesday, except, it’s not. Apparently, I woke up in the midst of a canine version of ‘Night of the Living Squirrels’ or something. Who knew the apocalypse would have such a nutty twist? I roll out of bed, fluff my enviable coat, and decide today is a good day to turn ‘survivor’—but make it fashion.

First order of business: finding my crew. There’s no way I’m sniffing through the ruins of humanity solo. Plus, I’ve seen enough episodes of you-know-what with my previous owner to know the alpha always needs a trustworthy pack. And who’s more alpha than moi? I scamper over to Golden Retriever River where surely some of my furry mates are concocting plans for finding the choicest bits of kibble in this new world order.

“Oscar, buddy, you’re alive!” Cooper, the Golden Retriever, always the cheerleader, bounds up to me. His optimism is like, infectious, in a good way – not in the way that turned all the hamsters into brain-nibbling zombies.

“Yeah, and I see you haven’t missed any meals,” I quip, because, well, I can’t not. I notice he’s standing guard by what looks like a fortress of chew toys and ‘survival biscuits’. “Planning a feast or something?”

“Nah,” Cooper barks, “just keeping things safe from the Pomeranian Horde. They’ve gone completely territorial.”

Yikes, mental note: avoid Pom Poms—got it. But now we’ve gotta strategize. I suggest Red Beagle Beach ’cause I have a soft spot for sandy paws, and we could use the relaxation. But, you know, in an end-of-the-world, non-vacationy kind of way.

“Oscar, the beach has been taken over by the Cat-astrophe Coalition,” chirps in Bella, a Corgi who’s half my size but with twice the attitude. And she calls me Dramatic.

“Scratch that, let’s hit up South Siberian Summit. I mean it’s either that or we’re stuck at The Pampered Pooch Salon—I’m not about to get a post-apocalyptic makeover,” I suggest, trying not to sound like the diva I very much am.

“Oscar, you’re brilliant!” Cooper drools, because Summit is high ground, and in our brave new world, high ground is basically the penthouse suite of survival real estate.

As we trek, every now and then I catch myself worrying about what I’ll do if I spot Ruby—I can’t possibly fight off a pack of zombie chihuahuas without her. And then there’s this whole bit about what I’m supposed to eat now that five-star dining à la Pooched Potatoes is indefinitely off the menu. I mean, does apocalypse come with a side of chicken? It better.

We arrive at the Summit, and truth be told, it’s breathtaking. Also, not a zombified critter in sight. “Finally, some solitude,” I sigh, trying to project gravitas—that’s what heroes do in times of crisis, right?

Then, out of nowhere, comes this horrendously loud noise, like mega-decibels, ear-splitting, and for a moment, I wish I had thumbs to cover my ears. Turns out, it’s just Max, the Doberman, with a ghettoblaster—and thank dog, he’s alive too! My fluffy demeanor returns.

Dear Diary, as I recycle reality show cattiness with my puppy pals atop the summit, gaze upon a world less ordinary, and share in the silence of solidarity, I am reminded that even though the apocalypse is not what I ordered, it might just be the adventure I never knew I needed.

Alright, enough of the feels. Gotta stay on top of my survival game—and find some blasted chicken. Priorities, Oscar, priorities.

The End.

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