Hey Dad, it’s Slippers here. Just saved the neighbourhood from a mischievous cat gang, found a long lost golden bone and made some pretty rad squirrel allies, all while mastering the art of fetch. Feels like a good dog day! 🐾 – Slippers

Well now, ain’t that a holler and a half, trying to understand the antics of my two-legged compatriots in the grand backdrop of Spencerville. After the big ol’ catastrophe had crumbled up their high-and-mighty cities like a big ol’ wet biscuit, they decided to take a crack at building things up from the ground up, and well, I’d be a coon dog if I didn’t bear witness to their downright persevering spirit.

Course, I ain’t no ordinary ruffian. My name’s Russell; a good ol’ hound who struts around these parts with some sense of candor, if you will. It’s not often you find a dog can Shakespearingly translate the human mumbo-jumbo, or weigh and scribble their exploits, but I reckon the good Lord made a few of us special so as not to desert y’all in narration.

So, let’s mosey on to this particular dawn. In post-apocalyptic Spencerville, where the sun came up like molasses in winter, as though the end of the world had it draggin’ its feet. We were up and about, my human Jake and I, tending to the labor of reconstructions, a creative expression of sorts painted with timber and sweat in the style of them old pioneers.

“How’re we looking over there, Russ?”, he’d say, blinking away the sawdust and sweat, peering at me from under that ratty brown hat. I’d wag my tail so he knew he was doing alright, a quiet affirming of his craft. I reckon it’s tough as boots, building a civilization, but if there’s a man to do it, it’s my Jake.

Lunchtime arrived with its own routine, the sun perched up high, casting long, sundial shadows on Jake’s weather-beaten face. He’d pull out two sandwiches, one for him, one for me. We’d sit side by side, chewing and watching silence do its part in the ruins. Then, as if on cue, we’d hear it – the hammering of nails, the laughter of kids playing between the ruins, the yapping of other dogs, and beneath it all, the low, steady hum of Spencerville persevering, stubborn as an ox, unyielding as the will of a good dog.

“Gonna be a good one, ain’t it, Russ?”, he’d say, thumbing at the half-made buildings around us. And I’d wag my tail, affirming his hope with mine tethered along.

Evenings had their own charm, the extinguishing sun making a silhouette of the ruins and the creations amidst. We’d trot back to our temporary abode – a jerry-built shelter, sesame-seedding with hope and resilience. After the rations, Jake would scratch behind my ears in that sweet spot that made me thump my tail loud enough to rival the beat of this reawakening city. And he’d talk to me about tomorrow – an eager opening chapter of a book that has a whole dollop of surprises – and I’d listen.

That’s a day in my life, in our lives, summed up in tail-wags and sandwiches, persevering together in old Spencerville. The word you humans use is ‘hope,’ ain’t it? Well, I reckon it tastes much like those sandwiches – bit of a struggle to chew through, but leaving you fuller and mightier in spirit. So here we are, a man and his dog, building hope out of ruins, one timber at a time.