Yo Ellie,

Just a quick pawdate from your two-tone troubadour, Panda! I’m Pawsburg’s #1 canine scout now, sniffing out hope in a biscuit-less world. Embracing the rogue life, I’ll nab us a memory orb, dodge lemon booby-traps, and lead our furry pals to glory. Miss your heart-pulse, but carrying your spirit in every wag. Keep howling at that moon! 🐾

– Pan-dorable

Listen to the story here

When the world of humans teetered and fell into the realm of apocalyptic whispers, we – the vigilant canines of Earth – found solace in a myth come to life, the Pawsburg we always dreamt of amidst daytime dozes and nighttime snores. Ahh, Pawsburg, a place of smells so profound a single whiff could tell you tales of dinosaurs.

Imagine, if you will, me – Panda, a chap with a coat as dappled as the keys of a grand piano, and a spirit as unbreakable as the very leash that tried. A wind-in-the-fur enthusiast, I ventured forth with bounds and leaps, guiding you now through this yarn of survival and dogged determination.

So there I was, perched upon the celebrated Doberman Dunes, my eyes scanning the horizon as a dog-perfect sun dipped low, coating the land in a riot of amber and gold. Me, with my mix of Catahoula charisma and random rogue’s luck, was known as the scout.

My dearest human, Ellie, would have crafted biscuits that resembled these dunes, but here, in Pawsburg, the Beagle Bagels were the treats du jour, sating canine cravings when the bark of hunger growled louder than any beast we imagined prowled the dust-shrouded sidewalks.

“Why look so, Panda?” queried Max, the vintage Beagle whose wisdom was as much a part of him as his age-softened ears. “This land’s ours for the taking, no?”

“Aye, it is,” I admitted, “but what is a land without the heart-pulse of your favorite human?”

Bella pranced by my side, her Samoyed fluff billowing like cumulus clouds. “Perhaps,” she suggested in a way that only Bella could, “you could capture this heart-pulse in an artifact, an orb of memory, say, over at The Furry Friends Art Gallery?”

The idea was mad enough to have merit. I decided then to embark on a quest through Pawsburg’s ruins, keeping my paws clear of the Citrus Circles barricaded at each entry, marked with the zest of a lemon. It was my bane, that sharp, stinging tang, turning my muzzle up in dismay every time.

As night befell our improvised commune, our tails painting wagging streaks through the dust, our conclave gathered at the Labrador Lunch, a symposium of growls and whines in lieu of former human clatter. Through the torn backdoor, in the flicker of an old oil lamp, stories were shared, and dreams dangled in the smoky haze.

Time wheeled, and the grimness of our post-apocalyptic trot was softened by games. The Fetch! Toys and Treats lay plundered by many a pup’s need for distraction. There, I fetched my squeaky hedgehog and sturdy rope, ammunition against the quiet and the stillness, combatting the ghosts that haunted our memories.

“I say we embark to Bloodhound Bluffs tomorrow,” I announced after a tortellini twist for a morsel of chicken.

“And leave the comfort of Bark Buffet?” Max barked, sardonically wagging his tail. Might I add, none of us had seen a buffet in what seemed like dog years.

“We do,” I affirmed, nosing the air for the anticipation of adventure only a proper escapade like this could satiate.

So the next daybreak, with snouts to the wind and survival tucked beneath our collars, we set out. Pearl Papillon Promenade stretched out before us, once a street of chatter and doggie wares, now silent but for the distant echo of a tumbleweed’s ballet.

By the end of our trek, the Cliffs of Bloodhound promised us reflections. Placing paw on rugged ground, I vowed to bring back a world where the feline might fear the barking dead, but we, the four-legged survivors, would rise.

Yes, life post-apocalypse was not too ruff after all, eh? Toasters abandoned, streets deserted, but here in Pawsburg, we found the heart-pulse of humanity undimmed in the wagging tails and hopeful eyes of our canine kin.

The End.