Hey there, Pack Leader!

Just wanted to paws and update you on my shenanigans. With the humans pulling their best Houdini act, I’m now officially Pawsburg’s resident Sherlock Bones, sniffing out adventures and unraveling the mystery with my squad. We’re learning the ropes (and chewing a few, too) of this human-less hangout. There’s a tail-wagging tale to tell every night, so stay tuned—our bark is about to get much louder than our bite.

Wags and woofs,
Sayka 🐾🕵️‍♀️

Listen to the story here

It was a terribly typical Tuesday when the world as we knew it flipped over like a stubborn pancake. The humans – oh, those curious two-legged creatures with thumbs – appeared to vanish into the same void where all lost tennis balls presumably went.

I’m Sayka, by the way. English Staffordshire Bull Terrier by birth, indefatigable adventurer by vocation. Now, don’t let my svelte coat and impeccable manners fool you; I’ve walked more miles on my paws than the mailman, and that’s saying something.

The Pawsburg chronicles shall henceforth paint a picture of that curious Tuesday. Picture this: I strolled along Schnauzer Street, past the aromatic wafts of Spaniel Spaghetti, where the parmesan was always as freshly grated as the gossip. Something was distinctly odd in the air, and it wasn’t just the scent of Pom’s Pies – even if I swore they put something addictive in the crust.

Where were the belly rub dispensers? The ball-thrower extraordinaires? The everyday hustle of Pawsburg seemed to be missing its prime ingredient: the humans.

Without the scratching of “good dog” affirmations behind our ears, confusion scratched instead. Bruno, with his boxer’s bravado and a head that seemed perpetually in the clouds, pondered if perhaps a mass game of hide-and-seek was afoot, suggesting we all had missed the memo.

Maggie, her golden coat radiating the calmness of a sunbeam through a half-opened curtain, signaled me to a gathering at Harrier Harbor. The air buzzed with a mishmash of barks and yips – the canine version of a crisis management meeting.

We convened, an eclectic round table without the table. Oreos and Malibus, Bulldogs and Huskies, all the breeds represented. Pierre, the Poodle, had the look of someone who had seen a vacuum cleaner on full blast; he insisted he’d witnessed a human fading away like a poorly-performed magic trick.

“Gone, poof!” he declared dramatically, paws up in the air like the little exclamation marks they were.

Bursts of murmurs rose in waves, tide coming in with theories and the tide going out with skepticism.

In true English Staffordshire Bull Terrier fashion – that’s me, remember – I took a practical approach. “It is absurdly obvious,” I said, tail wagging not just for show but for emphasis, “the humans aided us to Pawsburgh, and now, the town is exclusively our domain. Why not relish it?”

Cheers broke out, rightfully so, as my optimism could charm a cat down from a tree – not that I’d ever attempt something so preposterous. Together with Bruno and Maggie, we elected to explore the post-human Pawsburgh with vigor worthy of a tail-wagging spectacle.

Amidst the freedom, we faced challenges undeniably. Who knew chicken wouldn’t cook itself or that doorknobs were impervious to paws, regardless of determination? I’ll even admit, in a hushed whisper, the faint longing for that abhorrent crunch of celery I so often turned my snout up at.

The days that followed weaved a narrative tapestry – The Walking Pets, if you will. We navigated this post-apocalyptic world, finding strength in the pack, unearthing joys in the simplest of things: the stick, the chase, the cool shade beneath the ole faithful oak.

Each night, as stars peppered the sky like specks of dirt on a freshly vacuumed rug, tales of the day’s endeavors were recollected with fervor. And as I regaled the escapades, my gaze fixed upon where the horizon stitched itself to the land – somewhere out there among the missing socks of the world, our humans were perhaps recounting stories of their own.

No one knew if the humans would return to perform their miraculous reappearances, or if our yarns would remain our own to tell – barks echoed in the void. But as any dog with a staunchly wagging tail would tell you, tomorrow was another day to fetch.

The End.

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