Hey fam! 🐾 Just a quick 📱 update: Became the hero of Pawsburgh post a cat invasion 🐈‍⬛! Led the doggo-pack, rebuilt our town, maintained high spirits (Champ’s in charge of morale, go figure), and ensured we dined like kings at the deli (courtesy of Princess Bella 👑). Still dodging bath time, but hey, dirty paws, full hearts, can’t lose, right? 🦴🏗️ Moonlit howls of triumph to end the days. Stay pawsitive! 🌕🐶✨

Bark ya later,
Molls 🐕💕

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Oh boy, first thing I need to say, if you’re expecting a diary chock-full of “Dear Diary, today I sniffed a rose, and it was *lovely*,” you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m Mollie, the St. Bernard, remember?

So, get this. It was just another Tuesday, or at least I think it was Tuesday; I don’t have a great grasp of human time-keeping. The sky had that bluish tint, hinting that the hoomans had left for their daily to-dos. Anyway, an eerie calmness had settled over my abode, the kind that crawls up your fur and — oh, what’s that? The Pawsburgh portal?

Like any mindful mutt with notions of grandeur and a dash of recklessness, I slinked through the passageway tail-first. Darn it, I should’ve gone head-first! ‘Cause there it was — Pawsburgh, in a chaos of chewed-up dreams.

Where once there were bustling boulevards and Scruffy McTerriers wagging tails in unity, now only the remnants of Sapphire Schnauzer Street stood, littered with the aftermath of what I can only presume was the Cat-astrophic Event. No, literally. Cats. They’d barged in, I heard, with their scheming whiskers and overarching plots to squash the Pawsburgh spirit.

But us dogs? We’re scrappy. No kitty (or their apocalypse) can hold us down. So there I was, coordinating the rebuild, one pawclap at a time.

The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium? More like Command Center for Canine Reclamation. I stood proudly by the crumpled portraits of felines dressed as admirals, bark-ordering my crew. “We need to round up the squeaky toys, Champ! They boost morale!” I commanded.

Champ, who, let’s face it, understands bravado far more than logistics, gave a confused yet enthusiastic roar. The Rottie should stick to lifting spirits, not supplies.

And Bella? Bless her Cavalier heart. She organized the food lines at the Doggone Deli like it was a royal banquet, curtsying and all. “One bowl of diced chicken for the lady with the fluffy tail!”

That fluffy-tailed lady? Yeah, that’s me.

With the aid of every brave bark and woof, we turned Pawsburgh into a beacon of hope in this post-apocalyptic pup world. Collie’s Cuisine became an outpost for culinary learning because if we’re going to rebuild society, we’re doing it on a full stomach!

By the dog Star Sirius, bath time was still my nightmare, but priorities, you know? If the cats came back, I’d rather be dirty and alert than clean and caught off-guard — a sentiment Champ heartily echoed between burps. Table manners, I tell ya.

The mood in the air was changing, the once pungent scent of defeat now mingling with the perfume of perseverance. Even the thrice-cursed Spitz Spire, that needle in the paw of Pawsburgh happiness, stood tall again — a symbol of dogged persistence.

But every night, after a hard day’s toil under the Pawsburgh sun, I’d sit on Cavalier Cove, staring at the moon’s reflection on the water — it was six times larger now; go figure. I’d let out a howl, half-mourning, half-triumph, contemplating the doggone resilience of my kin.

So there you have it, the tail — I mean, tale — of how us mutts (and pedigrees, fine) made limping, woofing history. It was no walkies in the park, that’s fur sure. But with each wag of my plumed appendage, I recount these grrrousing tails — darn, tales — for another day begins, and who knows, maybe today I’ll finally outwit that elusive sun ray.

The Mollie way? It’s about finding glimmers of joy amidst the rubble, about that undying hope lying deep in the marrow of every good doggo’s bone. And when hope’s around, well, my friends, even apawcalypses don’t stand a chance.

The End.

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