Hey there,

Just thought I’d drop a line to let ya know ol’ Pierre Paul (that’s me!) has been keepin’ the dream alive in Pawsburg with Rex by my side. We’re sniffin’ out scraps and memories, keepin’ tails a-waggin’ and spirits high among the four-legged survivors. It’s a dog’s life, but someone’s gotta lead the pack, shape tomorrow, and remember our Daisy days. Hope’s our main treat, and we’re sharin’ it, one bark at a time.

Keep howlin’,

Pierre 🐾

Listen to the story here

Well now, I reckon it’s about time y’all heard the latest yarn ’bout my fur-iend, that black-coated rascal Rex. Ain’t no sunshine in Pawsburg these days, not since that calamity turned our blessed doggone town into a place scarce better’n the Badlands after a dust storm cleared out every critter and hound for miles. But we’re dogs of grit, if we’re anything at all.

The day dawned – gray as an old hound’s muzzle – when Rex and I, that’s Pierre Paul by the by, decided to hoof it on over to Hound Heights. As I shook the dust from my paws and trudged ‘longside him, I took to ponderin’ how that wise gaze of his seemed to penetrate the fog that crept in with every morning dew. I coulda sworn on my best bone that he knew something ’bout the Before Time – them days of plenty before folks just up and vanished, leavin’ us to our own devices.

We skirted around Papillon Promenade, all quiet-like, since that’s where them roguish poodles took up residence, claimin’ the scraps of civilization’s leavin’s as their own. Can’t say I blamed ’em; after all, every pup still standing had to hustle to keep the fur on their back.

Rex, he’s always the adventurous type. Through the rumble of his chest, he says to me, “Pierre, we gotta snag us some eats ‘fore our bellies start howlin’ louder than our muzzles.”

That pitbull’s nose, sharp as a tack, led us straight to Chihuahua’s Chimichangas. It was plumb abandoned, of course – cept for the grumbles of hungry scavengers inside. He slipped in between the gapes in the walls and helped himself to some canned morsels left behind.

Now Rex, he’s got no love for green beans, which worked out fine since them were about the only vittles the critters hadn’t pillaged. As for me, I’m less picky. Weeds or beans, if it quiets my belly, it’s a feast.

The both of us ambled to Cavalier Cove, the waters murmuring tales of old. We pondered the shattered reflections of what was once The Woofy Bakery and The Dapper Dog Salon. There used to be this scent of sweet treats wafting outta that bakery that’d make your snout dance with delight. And a well-groomed dog was a sight more dignified than the matted scavengers we’d all become.

As the sun dipped down, spreadin’ orange and pink whispers ‘cross the sky, we found solace just sittin’ there, two mutts against the world. Rex gazed off, and I tarried a moment longer at the cove.

“Daisy’d have loved to run on that beach,” I said, remembering that spunky Labrador, whose barks once echoed cheerily in Squirrel Park. Might not be much we can tug back from before, but the memories, they cling tighter’n burrs on a long-haired pooch.

We turned ‘fore long, speakin’ of tomorrow’s doin’s. Rex had half a mind to teach them young pups how to fend for their own, mayhaps even spark up a little hope where it laid buried deeper’n any bone.

“I reckon we’ll get a good spate of work done,” says I, tail waggin’ without a bit of regret. “Someone’s gotta take the lead, might as well be a clever hound like yourself.”

He barked a laugh, my Rex did, and it warmed you to the marrow, that sound. “We’ll get her done, Pierre, mark my bark. The sun’s settin’ on today, but we’ll be here to see her rise on tomorrow’s Pawsburg.”

Yessir, hope’s a tenacious cur, and as long as there’s one dog left to wag a tail, Pawsburg – it ain’t just a town, but the spirit of us all, perfectin’ the art of pawin’ through to a new day.

The End.