Hey there, just checking in from the fur-tastic front lines of Pawsburgh – yep, your top dog Bax here. Survived another “Tuesday” dodging ‘The Scratching Dead’ and nearly getting zinged by citrus traps. Found chicken-strip gold but had to bail. Tail’s still here so’s the spirit. If I can keep wagging through this, you’ve got the weekend in the bag. Stay paw-sitive! – Bax 🐾🦴🐶

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There I was, the notorious Bax, snout deep in the art of survival. The sun had set on humanity’s reign and dawned on the age of The Walking Pets. Pawsburgh was no longer just a hidden canine utopia; it had become the canvas for a grander tail… I mean, tale.

It was a Tuesday – not that days of the week mattered much post-apocalypse. But for tradition’s sake, let’s call it a Tuesday. My allies and I had gathered at Rottweiler Ridge, plotting our scavenger route over scraps from Hound’s Hotdogs.

Now listen, surviving the apocalypse ain’t like chasing your tail. It requires wit, will, and a reliable squeaky toy. My rubber duck, affectionately nicknamed Quacky, was always by my side, providing both solace and strategy.

“We hit Canine Couture Clothing first,” announced Sasha, a sleek German Shepherd with eyes that could coordinate an evac from a hundred paws away. “We might as well be fabulous while fighting for our furry lives.”

I nodded, with my honorary second-in-command, a Dachshund named Edgar, smirking under his long whiskers. Style had taken a quirky turn at the end of the world yet remained an undeniable part of our canine culture.

As we journeyed down to Garnet Greyhound Grove, the scent of danger wafted through the air. Wild, zombified cats — ‘The Scratching Dead’ as we humorously but respectfully called them — were rarely the welcoming type.

“Tail formation, everyone!” I barked, my voice laced with enough authority to remind them I wasn’t just a cute face with spot-on comedic timing. We maneuvered past the old Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store, now a mere shell of its former glory, chock-full of hairballs and catnip remnants.

We reached the Woofy Bakery amidst the adrenaline rush, where we once indulged in doggy donuts and breadsticks shaped like bones. I could almost taste them as I made a mental note to share this moment with my human if they ever returned from their scavenging expedition for toilet paper.

Amid the ruins, we discovered a treasure trove – a stash of chicken strips, faintly glowing like the neon sign of Bark-n-Bite Bistro in days of yore. Edgar made a dash with his tiny legs, which isn’t saying much for speed, but his heart was in a full-out sprint.

“Citrus! Citrus grenades!” I yelped, spotting the traps set by the felines. My mates froze. The temptation of chicken was crippling, but one lick of lemon could turn the bravest Pawsworth warrior into a whimpering pile of fur.

Weighing our options and drooling just a tad, we opted for a tactical retreat – because discretion’s the better part of not turning your mouth inside out.

As night fell, and we settled under the oak at the park, my paws wrapped around Quacky, I reflected on the day’s events. In Pawsburgh, amidst the furry faces and wagging tails, we had found sanctuary. Even if just for the night, we had a fortress, we had each other, and we had hope.

So, if you’re reading this – imagine it on stained parchment for dramatic effect – know that Bax, the Beagle-Bulldog hybrid with a thunderous heart and (now apocalyptic) ducks in a row, survived yet another Tuesday in Pawsburgh. And by dog, if we can survive this, *you* can survive your in-laws’ weekend visit.

Remember, keep your paws nimble, your nose to the wind, and – above all – watch out for those citrus grenades.

The End.

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