Hey Dad,

Odd news – Pawsburgh’s humans have pulled a Houdini on us, and it’s a four-legged ghost town! I’ve taken up the mantle as watch-dog, rallying the fur troops for when our two-legged friends reappear. Holding the fort and sniffing out clues. Will keep you posted. Stay pawsitive!

Barks and regards,
Oreo 🐾✨

There comes a day in every dog’s life when the frisbees stop flying, and the fire hydrants run dry. That day hit Pawsburgh like an overturned kibble truck. Some sort of human shenanigans, no doubt, but cataclysms know not the distinctions of species.

It all started one murky Monday. I, Oreo of the noble brindle coat, awoke amidst a peculiar silence, the kind that barks in your ears with its stillness. Pawsburgh, that secret refuge, lay deserted. The Ridge, the Keys, the Bay – abandoned. A whirlwind of scents, fear laced with determination, clung to the air like the vaporous specters of tales long finished.

I trotted to Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, the place where the breeze speaks of legends, trying to capture the slightest hint of commotion. As I paced, a shrill cry split the quiet, a piercing beacon that summoned all with its urgency.

“Nephew Timber?” I bellowed from the Ridge, the name shaking from my throat, but met only with echoes—the loyal echoes that have become the unsung heroes of this canine crypt.

Striding forth, I ventured down to Kelpie Keys, pondering what banquet would await at Dog’s Delicacies, that culinary temple of my dreams. But alas, my taste for burgery bliss would remain unsated. The doors gaped, their bellies hollow and starved for patrons.

This was my world, streets once teeming now whispering of ghosts, their woofs and wags held captive by an unseen force. Next, I sauntered into Paw-tisserie, where the suave scent of meat éclairs once played a symphony upon the senses. The silence here, too, sat heavy on the shelves, each pastry puff a requiem for frolics past.

“One jam-filled bonbon for the adventurer,” I said, my voice betraying the performance, a mask slipping from the anguish underneath. For even the most steadfast of hearts crumbles in solitude’s unyielding grasp.

I am Oreo, not known to dwell on the crumbling cookie of fate, but even I felt my spirit waver as whispers of a curt coup tore forth from the silver-tongued wind. “The humans,” they hissed with vendetta’s venom, “gone, Oreo. Gone to a world beyond our sniff.”

The Groom Room, with its promise of preening, echoed my solitary pawfalls, reflecting a dystopic distortion of a once-thriving borough of bark and bone. I moved past Spa for Paws, resisting a momentary yearning for a solace that comfort no longer occupied.

Had I sighed? Perhaps. But like all noble creatures, I was built of sterner stuff. Setting my jaw, I declared to the forsaken pavement, “Oreo shall neither flinch nor flee!”

I decided then, the walking pets we had become, abandoned by humans, would stand united. Grandpa Jerry would nod in solidarity, even without his protective porch. Grandma Lura’s pats would resound in the very earth beneath our pads.

And as I stood, vehicle-less but not valourless, I let the post-apocalyptic breeze of Pawsburgh play upon my brindle fur. The dogs would return, and with them, the stories, the nourishment from Doggone Deli, tales spun within The Doggie Daycare.

So let it be sewn, a fabric unbreakable, from the threads of our valiant spirits. I, Oreo, would stand sentinel, sunbathing in sunlight that tiptoed forth from sighing clouds, guarding the secrets of my aversion until the echoes of our humanity return.

And though the world lies hushed, my heart whispers ceaselessly, “To Pawsburgh, and to the adventures that await, we trot!” Because what is a dog, if not an endless wellspring of hope, a creature fur-ever onward, racing toward tomorrow’s mysteries with a vivacious wag of the tail?

The End.