Hey fam,

In the days post-Great Shake, it’s just me—Adalia Pearl, your adventure-loving lab—ruling Pawsburgh with my fellow canines. We lost some light, but gained a sense of kinship. My days are spent strategizing for food, heeding Jasper’s advice, and yesterday, we scored big: a treasure trove of treats! We’re staying strong, wagging tails despite the tremors, and always cherishing the simple joys. Pawsburgh’s heart beats strong, and so does mine.

Snuffles and tail wags,
Adalia Pearl 🐾

Listen to the story here

So it goes, in the times before and after the Great Shake—when fireflies danced no more and the great water bowls in the sky dried up—I, Adalia Pearl, labrador extraordinaire, learned that Pawsburgh was more than just a romping ground. It was a fortress. A den. A kingdom of dogs with muddy paws carving out hope amongst the ruins.

I never liked the dark much, something about the absence of chasing butterflies in sunshine didn’t sit right on my fur. But dogs adapt, we’ve always been good at that. Now I sit on the cracked pavement of Bichon Boulevard, my tennis ball a faded relic beside me, and consider the lay of the new land.

My family, humans of the affectionate sort, are gone like the buzz of the vacuum I so despised. But in this hush, we, the four-legged, raise our muzzles to a different tune. It’s the song of survival, and in strange ways, it brings out the zest in us rather than fear. Here, scents trade stories, and every bound and leap needs to be infused with strategy.

Yesterday, I wandered the crumbled remains of Samoyed Square, where shadows clung to the corners like stubborn burrs. Every now and then, a tremor would send shivers through my paws, reminding me of the fragility of our new world. Jasper, the old Beagle, has seen seasons and storms, still his advice is never to linger on the ‘whats’ but always move with the ‘nows’.

“You gotta sniff the wind more, Adalia,” he tells me, “it’s what tells you where the next meal’s at or when to tail it.”

So we make do. The Pooch’s Pizzeria, once a haven of saucy meats and canine chatter, lies silent. Lulu and I scavenge what we can, sharing crusts that taste of smoky memories.

We heard a rumor, a whisper really, passed from a schnauzer to a spaniel, that the Pawfect Training Center might have caches of treats buried before the Shake. It’s been weeks since we tasted anything but necessity. I dream of chicken—the kind that made my tail wag like it was trying to fly.

We set out at dawn, Jasper, Lulu, and me, searching through The Doggy Depot’s rubble first. I used to love the mirrors in The Groom Room. Now I avoid my reflection, the sadness in my autumn leaf eyes too much to bear.

But we’re dogs of Pawsburgh, creatures of mend and make do. And there, behind a toppled shelf, Lulu’s yelp rewarded us with gold—or rather, bags of treats and chews, dusty but unspoiled.

In that moment, who knows how long it’ll last, we feast. Chicken, beef, liver – a cornucopia of scents and flavors. Maybe it’s not the chicken I remember, but it wags my tail just the same.

Sometimes, the rumbling skies still scare us. But we learn to lay our heads on each other’s flanks and let the world shake as it will.

As I sit here under the stars of broken skylights, my heart belonging to the memories of a thousand energetic fetch games, I know that Pawsburgh isn’t about the places but the paws with which we explore them—Jasper’s wisdom, Lulu’s exuberance, and my own undying spirit.

So it goes, in the heart of a dog, that even at the end of all things, there is a simple joy found in a tattered tennis ball and a whiff of savory chicken from a can. Maybe this world has gone to the dogs—let’s just say I’m okay with that.

The End.

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