Hey there,

Rooster here, the top dog of Pawsburgh. Long tale short: town’s gone nuts with a pup-zombie outbreak and I’m leading the pack to fight back at Chowhound’s Chophouse. It’s our Alamo now. This Bully’s rolling up his paws and doing more than fetching—we’re saving the dog park, one bark at a time. Stay sharp, stay safe, and stick with this alpha if you wanna keep your tail wagging.

Over and pout,
Rooster 🐾🦴

Listen to the story here

You wouldn’t expect Pawsburgh to be the setting of a tail-wagging apocalypse. But there I was, Rooster, the Tri-color American Bully with a swagger not even the undead—not that they cared for style—could deny. Just another day lounging on the cool tiles got a little… bitey.

It started like any other Pawsburgh morning, with the golden sun bow-wowing its way into the sky. But by the time the town clock struck lunch, it seemed every dog had lost its collar. Dogs didn’t just play dead; they stayed dead. Until they didn’t.

You know me—confidence shines through my coat like a polished leash. Not today though, today the air in Vizsla Valley buzzed with dog-whistles of distress, and Chestnut Cocker Courtyard echoed with growls that would make a mailman sweat.

Buddy, the beagle with the howl, came skidding into Canine Couture Clothing, breathless. “Rooster, it’s chaos. The Bark Buffet’s overrun with…with them.”

“You’re yapping like a Chihuahua stuck in a revolving door,” I retorted, the edge of my patience frayed like a well-loved rope toy. “The what?”

“The walking pets. They’re everywhere!”

The fur stood tall on my back. If Buddy was huffing panic instead of his usual bravado, this was no false alarm.

“Alright, Buddy. Let’s move our tails. There’s gotta be a sane spot in Pawsburgh. Maybe Onyx Otterhound Oasis?”

We sidestepped the droolers at Pawfect Pastries and ducked into The Pawsome Pet Pharmacy for some essentials—nothing citrus (disgusting, even for emergencies), but plenty of chicken and peanut butter (could charm the viciousness out of rottweiler, I swear).

A near-miss with a gang of groaners, and we were at the oasis: a sparkling pool of serenity, or so it once was. Anyone could see, it wasn’t the paradise of before. The water had a ripple of worry across it. Still, it was safer than the chophouse where barks had turned to snarls.

“The town has gone mad, Rooster,” Buddy’s ears were could nearly touch the ground from his despair. “And not mad-for-a-squeaky-toy mad, actual mad.”

I nodded, munching thoughtfully on a chicken chunk. “We need a den, somewhere to burrow down till things snuff themselves out. Out-sniff them, in a way.”

“You and your metaphors. This is real life, Rooster, not some dog-eared novel!”

Snout to the ground, tail stiff as a leash in a tug-of-war, I caught a scent that cut through the dread—a brave vibrancy that spelled hope. A plan hatched in my doggy dome as fast as tail-chasing commences post-bath.

“We head to Chowhound’s Chophouse. Make it our… Alamo,” I declared, Buddy’s eyes wide, glinting like my favorite blue rubber ball in the sun. “We stand our ground there, rally the sane ones left. Fight off these puppy-zombies paw-for-paw.”

His bark faltered. “But it’s a buffet of bones there, Rooster.”

“So we chew through it, Buddy. We’ve got jaws, don’t we?” The thrill of the adventure started to scratch that itch behind my ears. “And if the Dogfather taught us anything, it’s that every dog has its day. Well, today’s ours!”

With heroic huffs and barks, we set off, determined as a mutt on a mission. We’d reclaim Pawsburgh, one chewed-up, drool-slobbered step at a time. Even in its fur-flying terror, hope—for treats, scritches, and belly rubs—would never be neutered.

So here I am, the Bully, the Rooster, leading the pack in a world where being a good boy isn’t just about catching the ball—it’s about saving the whole dang dog park.

The End.