Hey there,

Strolled through a ghost town today, dodged the Walking Pets, and made The Wagging Tail our latest (but not greatest) clubhouse. Sticking with the pack, keeping the legends alive one book at a time. You can bet we’re still dreaming of buttery spoons and ball chases. Until then, we survive, we thrive, we keep the tales of tails wagging. Be strong, be swift – the spirit of Pawsburgh depends on it.

Stay furry,
Griff

Listen to the story here

In Pawsburgh, the skies clouded with a scent of peril, I saunter silently. It’s a ghost town now, save for the bristled winds that speak of past frolics. My paws, once graced with the warmth of Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, now shuffle over the sallow sands of Diamond Doberman Dunes.

A distant bark breaks the hush, gnawing at the corners of my serenity. Walking Dead, they call ’em. Canine carcasses without a wag to their tail or a spark in their eye. Once friends, now they mindlessly roam. Baxter, Luna, and I, we steer clear, we survive, strategize; Sorkin’s scripts got nothing on the dialogue we exchange on the fly.

“You gotta keep moving, Griff,” Baxter’s voice filters through the haunted facade of Golden Grub, our rendezvous point turned makeshift fortress.

The earth beneath my paws trembles, Luna’s low growl a warning. “They’re close,” she whimpers.

The Walking Pets. Not quite alive, not fully gone. Their once bright eyes, dulled by unknown cataclysm, leer from the shadows. We dash for safety towards Briard Bridge, the old trusty structure trembling slightly as the world changes beneath it.

“There!” calls out Luna, a whisper daring enough to flutter in the wind, “To the bookstore!” It was The Wagging Tail, which once echoed with laughter and storytelling. Now it promises a momentary refuge, a breath.

We burst in, barricading the door with copies of ‘To Kill a Mockingbird,’ a tragic irony lost in the shuffle. We’ve taken to devouring books, not out of boredom, but to honor lost history, to keep the tales of those no longer with us alive. I nudge a well-thumbed copy of ‘The Great Dane Gatsby,’ a smile almost breaking the tension. Almost.

The faint hymn of the forest’s edge – our next gambit – reaches my ears. We move again, a silent count understood. Three beats and then the world explodes into motion. Paws against pavement, breaths in sync, we are a symphony of escape. Past Fetch! Toys and Treats, its colorful wares spilled like a clown’s fragmented smile.

There it is: my well-worn tennis ball, splattered against the mosaic of the chase. A moment, a glance, an eternal ache. But there’s no time; it’s survival over sentiment. Peanut butter spoons will have to wait – we’ll feast when the dead pets sleep, not a second before.

The forest swallows us, promise of safety in its green embrace. I turn to see Luna, ever the gentle soul guiding some of the younger strays. Baxter, meanwhile, is a map of vigor, muscles rolling beneath his coat as he hoists barriers, setting snares for the trailing undead.

Each night we lay under the murky stars, between the breaths of silent howls we dare not release. We recount the day’s adrenaline and plot the morrow’s traverse. Luna dreams of a haven, Baxter, ever the realist, plans for contingencies, and I? I dream of a return to days filled with frolics and sun-kissed naps.

My tale, dear reader, it’s woven with phantom threads of hope among the frayed edges of this new world. Dreams? Yes, whisperings of a tomorrow that may never come. But until the final day dawns, until the world rights itself or crumbles entirely, trust that I stand sentry. We, the resolute companions, battle-ready, love-bound.

A Great Dane wanders, ever mindful of the loved ones veiled in slumber, fighting not just for survival, but for the immortality of our stories, a testament to the legacy of Pawsburgh.

The End.