Hey hooman pal,

In this tail, I, Beau Bear, am the king of canines in the dog-eat-dog ruins of Pawsburgh. I sniff out humor among the debris, feast on the day’s grub with my furry friends, and curl up with dreams of a hopeful rebirth in The Howling Husky Hardware Store. It’s a pup’s life, but my Spaniel spirit keeps wagging in the heart of it all. 🐾

Stay pawsome,
Beau 🐶

Listen to the story here

In the lingering shadow of calamity, with a humanity’s metropolis reduced to whispers and ashes by a force as unforgiving as time itself, Pawsburgh remains. They say dogs have an uncanny knack for survival—that must explain how my beloved hometown, a magical refuge of tail wags and wet noses, weathered the storm. Here, amongst the sprawling ruins, there was one truth: dogs endure.

I reclined upon the sun-bathed steps of Kelpie Keys, the remains of lush canopies above, lazily guarding against the midday glow. With every languorous stretch of my legs, each paw kicked up small dust clouds—tiny sentinels of a world rebuilt. It was our world now, the world of dogs. And I, Beau Bear, found a strange comfort in the rhythm of our newfound lives.

The charm of Spaniel Springs hadn’t faded entirely with the fall of man. The once-joyous fountains lay still, having dried up like the dreams of their creators, yet they remained a gathering spot for the canine wanderers seeking whispers of the old world and a touch of gossip.

“You heard about Duke?” barked a scruffy terrier from under the fountain’s shade, casting an accusatory glance towards the distant Harrier Harbor. “Caught burying tin cans again. Thinks they’ll sprout into food trees, poor deluded mutt.”

Laughter echoed from the group, and even I allowed a chuckle to escape my lips. It was this ability to laugh amid the ruins that perhaps was humanity’s greatest gift to us.

But hunger rings louder than laughter, and as the sun conquered its highest peak, my paws carried me towards Golden Grub, a reminder of the grand banquets that once fed Pawsburgh’s most pampered pooches. On these very corners, we now gathered, not for handouts, but to share whatever scraps we scrounged up.

“Husky’s Hotcakes flipping anything good today?” I inquired as I approached the counter, my regal stance burdened by a slight droop—the aristocratic equivalent of slumming it.

“Only the finest grilled rodents seasoned with the essence of survival,” quipped a husky, flipping something vaguely edible with a spatula fashioned from debris. A laugh escaped me. The humor in Pawsburgh remained as dry as the abandoned watering holes.

As we settled for our less-than-gourmet meal, I couldn’t help but wistfully sniff the air for a scent of grilled chicken, a delicacy from a previous life. If providence was kind, perhaps I would taste such opulence again. And if not, the company of my brethren made every bite seem a feast.

Evening’s approach led me home—or what passed for one: a cozy nook within The Howling Husky Hardware Store, the walls adorned with tools once used to mend the world. Now they served as the abstract art of the post-apocalyptic canine.

Retreating to my fortress of solitude, I surrendered to slumber beside my most stalwart ally, the plush squirrel. Grasping it tight, I mused on the curious dichotomy of my existence—a lineage of luxury subsisting on the crumbs of collapse.

As dreams claimed my consciousness, I whispered of today to my furry friend. Who else could understand the weight of legacy entwined with my survival, the elegance of a king rendered a scavenger? But dreams also whispered back—of a future reborn, where the pavement would palate under a symphony of song and the fountains of Spaniel Springs would dance once more.

For in the heart of Beau Bear, even in a world unspun, the spirit of a Spaniel sang of hope—undimmed, undaunted, unbroken.

The End.