Hey fam! 🌞 So here’s the scoop: Imagine me, a savvy bulldog queen, leading a ragtag team (Max the Golden Retriever, Bubbles the Siamese Cat) through post-apocalyptic Spencerville. We’re dodging weird two-legged creatures and terrifying vacuums, all in pursuit of ham. Today’s mission at The Bone Appetit was a success—ham secured, vacuums conquered. Rebuilding our world, one ham bite at a time! 🐾

xoxo,
Jackie (your little potato) 🥔

I sniff the air and adjust my ears. The faint scent of ham checks in with me—somewhere, it assures me, proper goodness awaits. I wiggle my rump and position myself at the high point of Cream Maltese Meadow, feeling like the queen surveying her kingdom. Or at least, a very spunky bulldog doing her darnedest to keep her turf in check.

It’s been weeks now since the loud booms and flashes turned Spencerville topsy-turvy. I still remember the day vividly—the sky performing acts of bravado as if it were a hyperactive poodle trying to impress everyone. Whatever conjured forth the chaos, one thing was certain: our cozy little haven had shifted into a world where even a trip to The Wagging Tail Bookstore required strategy.

By “strategy,” I mean navigating around those weird, two-legged, furless creatures who look a lot like humans but act…well, less polite. They’ve got the disheveled look of mutts just out of a bath, and that makes them unpredictable. My steady companions—Max the Golden Retriever and Bubbles the Siamese Cat—stick close, their fur bristling with readiness. Max, sharing my disdain for loud noise, never strays far from my side. Bubbles, of course, keeps her distance in that aloof cat way, but you know she’s got your back—strategically hidden, of course, like a well-timed pounce.

Our mission today involves The Bone Appetit, both in hopes of some savory ham and intel on the latest scuttlebutt about safe zones. My frenemy, Sergeant Paws—an overzealous Pug from Fawn Pug Palace—has tipped me off about a potential stash of kibble and, you guessed it, ham.

Navigating the streets, I keep my eyes peeled for anything amiss, the way my nose catches that first whiff of ham from miles away. And there, standing guard like a chiseled gargoyle, is Brutus, the English Mastiff. His breath smells of day-old duck and determination as he catches sight of us. He grumbles something about tightening security but then winks—the big softie knows we’re in this survival thing together.

We weave through the alleyways, dodging the occasional tumbleweed of abandoned chew toys. That’s when I catch a glimpse of Fifi, a perpetually coiffed Pomeranian, perched atop The Wagging Tail Bookstore’s counter like she owns the place. Well, in this post-apocalyptic scene, maybe she does. Everyone needs a queen with a superior perm, right?

With one last lunge, we reach The Bone Appetit. Elvis—the sage-like Basset Hound with an ear for gossip—greets us with a lazy nod. The place smells of potential and the ghost of last night’s kibble pie.

“I heard through the grapevine you’re on a ham hunt, Jackie,” Elvis drawls, his southern accent thicker than molasses.

“Word travels fast,” I say, raising an eyebrow, which is tough for a bulldog, but I manage. “You got anything solid for us?”

He lets out a yawn that could rival the Hoover Dam displacing water, eyes twinkling underneath those droopy lids. “Check the cellar. Old stocks. Mind the vacuums—they’re the worst kind of company.”

Vacuums. My heart jumps to my throat, threatening to scamper out in sheer terror. Max, like the good pal he is, stands resolutely at my side. Together, we navigate down, down into the darkness until—cue celestial music—the ham awaits us.

Turns out, our intel was as solid as my chew toys after a few good gnaws. Three vacuums later, we emerge triumphant into the open air, chunks of savory ham clutched in our victorious jaws. Bubbles, who has been deftly avoiding any drama, peeks her head in to inspect our haul.

“Keep it down, will ya?” she mutters, licking her paw as if she’s too cool for success. But don’t let her fool you; she’s as thrilled as the rest of us.

As the sun begins to set, casting a golden hue over Spencerville’s battered yet resilient streets, I let out a satisfied sigh. Rebuilding society one ham haul at a time isn’t easy work, but with friends like these, it’s worth every tug-of-war and vacuum dodge.

So here we stand, smack dab in the middle of what’s left of Spencerville, a motley crew of survivors bonded by the simple tenets of friendship, adventure, and—most importantly—ham.

The End.