Hey Mom,

Just a daily update from yours truly, Bentley, aka Fluffin’ Butts. Turns out, I’m leading Pawsburg’s bravest pack against spooky howls that aren’t Sally the Chihuahua’s. The two-legs are gone, food is a scavenger hunt now, and Rover’s reign has ended—no, literally, we have no doggy king. I’m talking full-scale doggy vigilante stuff here. Wish me luck; we’re about to sniff out the mystery, with tails high and barks ready. Embracing my inner hero!

Wags and woofs,
Bentley 🐾✨

As I trotted along the mysteriously silent streets of Pawsburg – a town where, despite the absurdity of our predicament, we dogs kept the fire hydrants and lamp posts pristine, you’d hardly believe it’s the same place where we used to chase our tails before the world went topsy-turvy. I, Bentley, a Yorkie-Chihuahua mix with a fur coat that looked as though I’d raided a paint shop, found myself leading a pack of tail-waggers into the unknown.

It’s me – Bentley. You know, the pint-sized guardian with the heart of a lion and the bark of an excitable kitten? Yeah, that’s me. Now let me tell you about the day when our innocent escapades transformed into an adventure of survival and dogged resistance.

We used to frolic around Pointer Pier, chasing pigeons and the odd ghost of a fish scent that wafted from Emerald Eskimo Estuary. How about those beautiful days where we indulged at Hound’s Hotdogs and Marley’s Munchies? If you weren’t bounding through the sprawling Saluki Sands, you just weren’t living.

But it’s different now. We walk with a purpose. Play is no longer just play – it’s tactical training. For what, you ask? Well, the day the two-legs vanished, it seemed like heaven – endless food, freedom, beds for the taking – pure dog nirvana.

That little honeymoon ended quicker than a whiff of an unwelcome bath.

Now, the shadows of Pawsburg echoed with more than barks. We heard growls that didn’t fit any of us, howls that curdled the bravest of blood.

So here we were, one damp and murky morning at Golden Grub. I could sense trepidation in the pack. I plopped onto my haunches, a rumble in my belly from a lack of my standard freeze-dried treats. Smelling the air, I tried to reassure my furry brethren with a tale or two of our Lucky Lab Lenny who once found an entire stash of gourmet biscuits. Gallant tales. However, today felt different.

“Alright, listen up,” I began, my voice steady despite the fluff that was my natural aesthetic. “There’s a new scent in the wind. It’s not Millicent the Maltese. No, it’s something more… feral.”

I saw doubts in their eyes, smelt the fear rolling off them in invisible waves. A part of me, that stubborn streak Mom always chides me for having, wanted to snap and snarl until their confidence was back. But shyness kept my growl to a grumble.

“It’s up to us now. We used to play tag on the beaches, now we need to keep watch over those very sands. Rover’s reign is over,” I declared, metaphorically, of course, since we never had a king, and especially not one named Rover.

I led my pack through the The Furry Friends Art Gallery, past the Doggy Depot – caution in each paw step. We avoided the Vet’s office; it reminded us of times when the worst of our problems was the thermometer’s unsolicited intrusions.

As we reached the outskirts of town by the Emerald Eskimo Estuary, a chilling symphony reached our ears. Dogs long since forgotten were clawing their way back… like the two-legs’ movies, except no popcorn breaks here.

Never had to face something that truly struck terror in my tiny doggy heart – but there’s a first time for everything.

“Brace yourselves,” I barked, stepping forward bravely even as I missed the safety of Mom’s arms. “We’re the walking pets now, and we walk together!”

Tails stiff, heads high, we moved forward. Because that’s what dogs do – we stick together. And with a cunning mind, a fierce bark, and friends by your side, even the apocalypse looks a little less terrifying. So here I was, Bentley, about to wag my way into legend.

The End.

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