Hey Mom,

Just checking in from beyond the Before Times! I’m leading a pack of rebels (including a collie named Max and a spitfire Luna) in Spencerville. We’re creating a new world with squeaky burger relics and cucumber phobias – quite the tail-wagger’s dream, minus humans, of course. Miss the chin scratches but loving the post-apocalyptic freedom. Updating my title to AbbyGail, Queen of the Canine Crusade. Wish you could see me dart past the whispers of legend!

Love and pawprints,
Miss Abby 🐾✨

The sunlight trickle-dripped like honey over the crumbled remnants of what we pets, with notably lesser knowledge of history and grandiose names, refer to simply as “the Before Times.” The place’s structure had a scent of not-quite-forgotten human, mixed with the all-too-familiar musk of nature reclaiming its turf.

Here’s where I, AbbyGail, find myself in the tangled etchings of a world post-oh-so-dramatic collapse, my paws padding softly over the earth. The relentless sun beats down on Spencerville, turning Retriever River into my favored puddle-paw destination.

“Some good this apocalypse thing does,” I muse with a wry twitch of my nose, “At least it’s quiet enough to hear the squeak of my beloved burger.”

Skipping down the alley, past Happy Hounds Walking—now just a sign swinging like it’s had one too many doggy treats—I bark out a laugh so sharp it could cut the canned silence. The Bark Shak is where you’d find me if the world hadn’t taken the whole “roll over and play dead” thing so literal.

But my stream of consciousness is like the water in Eastern White Westie Woods—impossible to hold back. The thoughts—wild, yappy, and free—as nippy as the shade in those parts is cool.

My days drift in a bleary blend, my four-legged strolls a meander through what’s left of civilization. Since the humans strolled off this mortal coil or whatever, it became a tail-wagging free-for-all. And we, the walking pets—feline, canine, and otherwise—started making rules around here. Well, those who weren’t snoozing the whole day away, that is.

“Remember, AbbyGail,” Max barks with the wisdom of a Collie who has seen too many empty dog bowls, “we got to stick together.” His voice is all gravitas and I nod, because solidarity is what keeps our fur from getting too ruffled.

And Luna, with eyes as alight as Firecracker Night (whatever that is), dashes to my side with the speed of an overcaffeinated squirrel. “Adventure!” she yelps, and the word echoes as if Spencerville still had its walls intact and not this open-concept, post-apocalyptic chic thing going on.

Max, Luna, and I—we make up an odd sort of furry fellowship. Navigating the wilds of this toppling world, saving squeaky hamburgers from the rubble, and steering clear of… cucumbers. Because forget zombies—the veggie specters are the true horror.

I’ve become something of an enigma in these runs. The dogs whisper about the blaze of my coat as I dart past them. My siblings, echoes of an entwined past, fade into the folklore we spin about the once-upon-a-times before The End came wagging its tail.

You gotta understand, I’m a dog of simple pleasures; tail chases, chin scratches, the irreplaceable companionship of a well-worn toy. And someone please tell me, why won’t anybody cook at Paws On The Grill anymore? Oh, the humanity—wait, scratch that, the doggishness of this all is just too much.

So we run wild behind what used to be Mr. Jensen’s barn, because life goes on and we’re the type to keep strutting even if we’re the last paws clickety-clacking on this Earth.

Because, after all, Spencerville is where we wait, where I wait—hoping on hope, or whatever the equivalent is for a Golden Beagle with an epic disdain for cucumbers.

And at the heart of it, isn’t that what we all seek? A bit of certainty in an uncertain world—a hiding spot from the leafy green monstrosities, a haven for wayward squeaky toys, and maybe even a bite of chicken treat savored slowly as the world, gently, thump-thump-thumps into whatever comes next.

The End.

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