Hey Mom & Dad,

Surviving the Kibble Collapse here. I rallied the doggos, stirred up some canine courage, and led the charge to rebuild Pawsburgh. Between Bent’s new fashion statement (a pink bow, can you believe it?) and Buddy’s tearful feast, it’s been a wild ride. But we’re putting the pieces back, one bark at a time. Our tails are wagging with a little more hope each day.

Sniffs and licks,
Ony Extra

In the aftermath of the great Kibble Collapse, where the towers of Tailsville crumbled and the bountiful bins ran dry, we found ourselves scavenging among the ruins of a life once lavish with treats and toys. My name is Onyx, and this is the tale of how we nearly lost Pawsburgh to despair.

Now, Pawsburgh was once a place where dogs of every breed came to sniff the butts of freedom. But these days, the Onyx Otterhound Oasis lay barren, the Pointer Pier stood silent, and the Rottweiler Ridge…well, I’ll get to that.

See, I had a plan. Bent on restoration, I summoned Buddy n Bentley. “Gentlemen,” I said, though they were just bulldogs, “it’s time to fetch our fate.” Buddy drooled affirmatively, and Bentley—oh, Bentley just farted. That was his way of agreeing.

We set out, my blue ball clutched firmly in my maw, our bellies half-empty and a little less than half-full. But we had determination and a scent for survival. Humor me, will you, as I stretch the truth as thin as Shepherd’s Shawarma on a bad day.

We made our base at the Bark Buffet, where once we’d feasted without fear of tomorrow. Its cupboards now hung open like the jaws of a panting poodle. So we looted—forgive the term—the Doggy Depot for gear. I, sporting a backpack (yes, a backpack!) like some peddling mutt, led my brigade to the last known haven of food—the Hound’s Hotdogs.

“To each his own,” I barked, and such we did. I snatched a string of sausages with my teeth, making quick work of them. Buddy, the sentimental fool, had tears in his eyes, for every bite was a memory, every chew a ghost from parties past.

The days nipped at our heels, and our little fellowship waned under the weight of necessity. We braved the hills of Rottweiler Ridge, Bentley claiming every stick along the way—hoarder’s instinct, I’d call it.

Upon the eve of what I might melodramatically refer to as ‘reckoning,’ Bentley vanished. Panic gripped my stout heart. We searched, or rather I searched while Buddy whined. And then, amidst the desolation of a playground gone rogue, I heard it—a bark.

It led me to The Pampered Pooch Salon. There sat Bentley, before a shattered mirror, a view so harrowing that my gloved paw raised to my mouth in shock. On his head, tilted just so, sat a pink bow. No time for judgment; we had a Ridge to rebuild.

Shamelessly, we trotted back into the heart of Pawsburgh. With the help of The Barking Boutique’s collection of leashes, we jury-rigged tents and shelters worthy of a canine king.

Then, at night, the glow of friendship—Buddy, Bentley, and I—echoed in whispers and tail wags. We shared tales of the days when water was our enemy, when the vacuum monster roared, and ear-cleanings were a fact of life.

The next day, as the sun peeked through the chaos, hope sprouted like a bone buried deep in the earth. Lines began to waggle, shops to shuffle.

So here I sit, with these two lumps, among the rebounding barks of Pawsburgh, trying to decide which is more unbelievable—the survival of our little town, or Bentley wearing that infernal pink bow. And while tales of the Before Times spark laughter and life among the piles of rubble, I wonder if perhaps we’re not the lucky ones—a trio of survivors, in a world that’s learning to sit and stay all over again.

The End.

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