Yo, just wanted to catch you up real quick – it’s me, Benji, the furball hero of this tail-waggin’ tale. As the dawn broke over silent Pawsburgh, I sniffed out adventure and trotted into a doggone undead squirrel saga. With my pals in paw, I faced the furry apocalypse, chewed on kabobs for courage, and embraced my destiny as Pawsburgh’s bark knight. Still standing, still wagging, still your star-chested, wavy-furred, squirrel-chasing legend. Stay pawsome!

– Barksalot Benji

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I woke up that morning to the peculiar silence of the suburbs, the kind that’s not quite silent at all, but rather filled with the absence of human hustle. It’s as if the whole world was waiting for something, or perhaps just sleeping in. Not me though. I, Benji the mini bernedoodle, sporter of the star-shaped chest patch and irresistible wavy fur, was wide awake and ready for adventure.

You see, Pawsburgh is typically the kind of place where us dogs can waltz around, nary a leash in sight, but this morning felt different. There was a crispy tang in the air that wasn’t just the oncoming autumn—it was the whiff of unknown danger, perhaps adventure. And by ‘whiff’ I don’t mean the olfactory whispers we canines are privy to, but the kind that tickles at the back of a dog’s mind, where instincts and the nagging feeling that you forgot where your favorite ball is lurk.

As I trotted through the deserted Spitz Spire, an eerie chill shuffled down my spine followed by a breeze that seemed to murmur, “Play dead… or else.” Pawsburgh had become a scene straight out of ‘The Walking Dead’, a land where the living is a luxury and the undead—a probability. But a dog’s got to do what a dog’s got to do; you can’t get a good tail wag worrying about your impending doom.

I paced towards Amber Akita Alley, wondering if I’d find some of my friends. The alley, usually bustling with the vigor of canine commerce, was as deserted as a cat’s promise of friendship. Even the Snooty Snout Boutique, where I once admired a snazzy collar that perfectly framed my chest star, was disturbingly quiet.

“Benji,” a voice hissed. I pricked my ears, and out from behind a dumpster padded Whiskers, looking as smug as always, like he knew the end of the world was coming and had found it mildly amusing. “You’ve not seen those squirrelly fiends around, have you? They’ve been acting strange…” Before I could tell him that squirrels are inherently chaotic creatures, Toby burst out from a shadowy corner, beagle ears flopping madly.

“We must get to Golden Grub,” he barked, his voice a mix of fear and excitement, “before ‘they’ get to the scraps!”

Toby always had a flair for the dramatic, but his loyal and eccentric heart made him the perfect accomplice for whatever was afoot. We raced to the restaurant, ducking into Canine Kabobs along the way. It was an all-dog-treats buffet—a true doggy heaven that was made for the apocalypse. We helped ourselves to a few kabobs because, let’s face it, impending doom or not, one must never deny oneself the pleasure of a good chew.

We emerged to find the town center in turmoil. Not the raging chaos you might expect but rather a canine dance, a ballet of barks and yowls, as every dog in Pawsburgh confronted the absurd reality that the squirrel population had, indeed, turned. Their cute little faces were now determined and strategic, not to mention a bit unnerving.

I ruminated on my next step, savoring the squishy feel of my cherished blue ball in my mouth—it had survived the exodus from my house. Avocado-creamy dreams of idle afternoons vanished as my friends and I prepared for our stand.

And amidst the organized chaos, I found the core of my canine self. Not just a dog, but a survivor. A believer in the sheer ridiculous joy that even a world, dark and apocalyptic, could be met with a wagging tail and a well-timed game of fetch.

I am Benji, after all. Not just any dog, but a dog of Pawsburgh, trotting bravely through the crunching leaves, a living testament to the adventure that awaits when the world has truly gone… barking mad.

The End.

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