Hey pack pal, just a quick tail wag from your resident rebel, Texas. I spent today hustlin’ the alleys of Pawsburg, sticking it to the cats at Cocker Courtyard, savored some of Old Jeb’s secret savories, and kept our tails flying high. We might be living in a post-Event world, but remember, I’m the top dog turning pages in our new survival story. Stay paw-sitive! 🐾 – Tex

Listen to the story here

Every paw print has a story, and mine have trod a path through a world both lost and found. Since the Event—that whispered cataclysm that turned our human-tended Pawsburg into a self-governed haven—I’ve carried more than whispers of ancient kibble recipes in my stride.

Dawn breaks over Pawsburg like hope reclaiming its territory from night’s clutches. I stretch my limbs, the scar over my left eye pulling tight—a memento of what was and a badge of what’s become. I’m Texas, and this day, like every day, I rise not just to survive but to thrive in this post-apocalyptic dog’s world.

Sidestepping the tattered plush dragon from my collection of melodious toys, I exit the haven Old Jeb calls our home base. The desolation just beyond our humble barricades bears the weight of silence, but within, life barks loud. Our tails wag defiantly in the face of destruction, and my heart races with purpose; I’m not just any mutt—I am a herald of the new age.

Through the winding lanes flanked by willows stands The Dapper Dog Salon, its mirrors cracked, but the spirit reflected within utterly pristine. I see my usual cohorts, mirroring the town’s diversity—every dog with its story of survival tucked beneath their collars.

“Texas!” barks Chili, the butcher’s bulldog. Her tongue lolls out like a red carpet inviting conversation. “Heard a whiff that the Mayor’s cat’s planning to contest the Brunch Bill. You in?”

Her words come out fast, almost stumbling over one another, a signature rapid-fire Chili dialogue. A cat encroaching on dog legislature? Not on my watch.

Our way takes us to the Chestnut Cocker Courtyard—now a converging point for diplomacy and occasional discreet fencing over the last chewable bone. Over a table sat the Mayor’s cat, whiskers bristling with arrogance. Our eyes lock; the game is on.

“Mere fear won’t govern us,” I retort, meeting the cat’s gaze. It’s a dance of words we perform, a Sorkin-esque quick-step debate under the sun grown large in the abyss of our world.

Pawsburg may have its bouts of drama, but its culinary scene remains untouched by gloom. At Barking Brunch, where meals are shared amidst the rubble of what was, Old Jeb’s secret savories warm my belly—a comfort against the memories of crunching bones I’ve sworn off since the upheaval.

The sun wanes, and my paws carry me through tale-worthy escapades: an encounter with Kelpie Keys’ spirited squirrels, the solace of Saluki Sands with its panoramic vista holding our past and future in one glance. By the time the stars peek out, the day’s tale is weaved through the alleys and avenues of Pawsburgh.

At day’s end, I find myself at The Woofy Bakery, the scent of fresh biscuits an undercurrent to the aroma of new beginnings. Pawsburgh and I—we’re morphing, but our essence is unchallenged as I lie down, my scarred brow furrowing not with worry, but with dreams.

Tomorrow’s sun will see me race through these fields again, chasing not just the wind but the promise of stories yet to unfold. Because here in Pawsburg, we are more than survivors; we are scribes of a new dog-eared chapter, and each tail wag, every bark—a testimony to the tenacity of our kind.

And as I drift into the embrace of slumber, I whisper a finale to the story that begins anew each morn: “I am Texas, the voice of the lost city of Pawsburg, and this is but one of my days in the life of a world reborn.”

The End.