Hey furmily! 🐾 MQ here. Survived the zom-paw-calypse in Pawsburgh—turned WOOF WAFFLES & Fetch! into hound hideouts. Led the pack with snarls & wagging tails of bravery. We’re howling through till dawn. Tell the cat I did us proud. 🐶🌕 Love, the Canine Crusader 🦸‍♀️🐕 #DogDaysSurvivor

As the sun dipped lower than a dachshund’s belly on Bichon Boulevard, something prickled the back of my neck, an itch I couldn’t scratch. The air buzzed with a weird static, like the kind that floats before a storm or the hush that blankets the room when the vet enters. But this was Pawsburgh – our haven, our frolic-led utopia, where the whiff of danger was as rare as a cat in a kennel club meeting.

The evening was tracking along just as it should – the tail end of a day that scampered by, its hours bustling with the usual antics, Sam’s snout-deep in playful mischief and Bentley, his old eyes half-closed, amused by the folly of youth. Normally, I’d be leaping at shadows or wrestling with the squeaks of victory from my arsenal of chew-toys. But tonight, as the sky splashed purples and reds across our doggy dominion, I sensed the peeling away of normalcy, each hair on my coat rising like an audience giving a standing ovation to the impending unease.

Rolling down the road, I saw it – WOOF WAFFLES, the joint that served up heaven on a platter, now had its windows boarded, the scent of syrup and sausage sizzling in the air replaced by something foul, something that’d make a streetwise alley cat balk.

“Ho, MQ! You sniffin’ what I’m sniffing?” Sam asked, cantering up beside me, his usual flair subdued under a cloud of caution. What kind of madness had stirred in the platinum bowl of Pawsburgh tonight?

Before I could bark back an answer, shadows staggered across Pinscher Plaza, limping and lurching with a stench of dread – the Barking Dead. Yowls upon growls echoed as they nipped at the air, dragging paws that had lost their playful pat. “Bone cravers,” I thought, a term both Bentley and I coined for those who walked after their tails stopped wagging.

We had to hightail it out of there, split the scene like two tabbies who’d stumbled on a pool party at the Doberman’s den. Through Basenji Bay we sprinted, my paws thrumming against the cobbled stones, heart pounding to the rhythm of sheer doggone fear.

“Fetch! Toys and Treats,” – a store once known for its delightful squeakies, now dark and mute. Could’ve cried right there, but salty tears are for the weak, and in MQ’s story, the pages are filled with relentless spirit, not soppy sorrow.

Just when the alley seemed like our only ally, a flicker of hope barked up right there in the middle of chaos – The Pawsome Pet Pharmacy, a beacon of light, a fortress against the growling twilight.

Bentley was already there, barricading the door with the steely determination of an aged Alpha. “Inside, quick!” his gruff voice commanded as though he’d been to hell’s kennel and spat in the devil dog’s eye.

We hunkered down among the bandages and bones, an apocalyptic symphony rising outside, bark upon snarl upon howl. But even in the midst of mayhem, the aroma of dried chicken treats teased my nose. The Pup’s Paella from across the way had to wait until the world stopped teaching us new tricks of terror.

Sam’s tail tucked between his legs, an image mirroring my own frazzled nerves. “What now?” the question hung, heavy as a waterlogged ball.

Now, stories of MQ ain’t about giving in; they’re about gumption, about standing furry-footed when the world’s gone to the mutts. Bentley, old as the stars yet solid as the ground beneath our paws, looked at us with centuries-old wisdom, “We survive the night, pups.”

Hunkered in that fortress of pharmaceuticals, with toys-turned-weapons and hearts thumping louder than a dropped bag of kibble, we prepared for the siege. Ready to howl our way through an apocalyptic night in Pawsburgh, a once peaceful town now barking with the undead.

For this is MQ, a living yarn spun into the fabric of canine valor, stitching our saga into the quilt of doghood legend. And as our barks echo into that haunted night, they sing tales not of defeat, but of friendship, survival, and paws poised to reclaim the dawn.

The End.

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