Yo family, it’s your alpha, Diggy the doogs! Just led a pack into an epic stash of grub at The Bone Appetit post-apocalypse. Had a standoff with some tuna-toting cats, but talked them into a truce with bacon bits. Now, we’re sharing meals and the new world. Tail wags & head pats for everyone! 🐾🍖 We’ve got this! – Iggy

Listen to the story here

Episode 1: “Bark of the Brave”

I remember the world before it happened—the apocalypse, that is. It wasn’t so bad, having humans around, tossing us treats, scratching behind the ears in that spot that just makes a leg go crazy. This existence, though… it’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m not just throwing around idioms.

You see, there’s a peculiar silence in Spencerville now, the kind you feel in your bones, unsettling, like waking up to find the sun has forgotten to climb the sky. We’d heard the distant howls, warnings of the world tipping on its axis, heralding a change we couldn’t wrap our heads around. Then the Event happened—no fire, no brimstone, just… absence. Humans gone, just like that.

We dogs found ourselves standing on the threshold of an eerie peace, the sort of calm that makes your whiskers twitch. We convened on Corgi Castle’s highest tower, the lot of us, with the wind weaving determined whispers through our fur. It was time to step up, or roll over and play dead for real this time.

I was never one to shy away from taking the leash, metaphorically speaking. They eyed me, eyes round and expectant. The weight of leadership, it turns out, feels a lot like the chunky, heart-shaped locket Alexis used to wear.

“Our first order,” I rumbled, and there’s a certain gravitas that comes with using a human construct like ‘order,’ “is food. We hit The Bone Appetit at dawn.”

Tails perked, ears lifted, a chorus of affirming woofs. The Bone Appetit was a place of plenty, a utopia of kibble and smoked chicken that could sustain us while we figured out the rest. A mission was set, hope kindling like the first fire amid an ice age.

Yet, dawn revealed turmoil—the scent of danger, that innate buzz in your bones that something is amiss. Lower Silver Siberian Summit, usually pristine with freshly fallen snow, was now marked with chaotic paw prints, a clue too loud to ignore. We weren’t alone.

“Guard up,” I warned, senses sharpening like the vet’s needle—necessary but oh so uncomfortable. We pressed forward, I in the vanguard, the olde English bulldog in me neither olde nor bulldogging at the moment. Brave. New. Leader.

A trap sprung, and we were besieged—cats. Sly, bushy-tailed anarchists, armed to the whiskers with… well, believe it or not, cans of tuna. The irony wasn’t lost on any of us.

Negotiations were tense; dialogue cut sharper than claws. They had The Bone Appetit under siege, a feline fort of whisker-licking delight. Terms were parsed, concessions were mooted—a share of the spoils for a truce, peace purchased with the currency of belly rubs and ear scratches.

“You want a fight?” I growled, my voice a low thunder, rough as asphalt. “Let’s talk a treaty instead. You ever taste a bacon bit? Let’s broaden your palate.”

The air was electric, thick with potential—peace or pandemonium. Ultimately, hunger proved a mightier motivator than the animosity etched in our lineages. A deal was struck.

And so it was that the cats and dogs of Spencerville, in the aftermath of human civilization, walked—nay, strutted—side by side into The Bone Appetit, our innate hostilities suspended by necessity, a collective purr and wag signaling a new era.

In my Spencerville, we may be walking pets, stalking through the ruins of days forgotten, but we’ll do it knowing that ‘The Walking Dead’ isn’t how we end. It’s merely where we begin again. We strive, we survive, we sit and stay, together.

I am Iggy, this is my pack, and our story is just getting unleashed.

The End.