Hey there,

Just a quick pawdate: saved Pawsburgh from a chicken calamity by braving Bloodhound Bluffs with Max & Lucy. Our bellies are full and our tails are high. Every dog has its day, and today we feasted like kings!

Paws and reflect on that,
Olaf 🐾✨

P.S. Remember, it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the chicken in our sight.

Olaf the Basset Hound here, reporting from the illustrious Pawsburgh, where the scent of survival clings to the fur like burrs to a blanket. Civilization may have whimpered its last outside these hallowed dog parks, but within, we’ve sustained a haven with enough tail wags to keep the darkness at bay.

Last Tuesday, a peculiarity pranced into town – a wind, hinting of untold stories. It was just past the unearthly hour when our humans, bless their oblivious hearts, retire to their daily grind of snores. I trotted with certain regal lethargy towards Cavalier Cove, my ears swept back as sails in the breeze. There, I found Max the Dalmatian and Lucy the Golden Retriever, their fur ruffled with concern.

“No chicken at Labrador Lunch!” Max yipped, his spots nearly bristling off his coat in frustration.

“No chicken?” I echoed, baffled by the notion. It was as preposterous as a cat leading a parade on its hind legs.

Lucy nuzzled her snout against my side, a comforting gesture. “We have to do something,” she insisted.

And so, we plotted. Our post-apocalyptic Pawsburgh could brave any catastrophe, but a chicken shortage was an ill omen. Max howled a suggestion, “Bloodhound Bluffs! Heard rumours of a chicken paradise that way.”

“It’s a canine’s tale,” I murmured dubiously. But what choice had we? With the grit of survivors, we scoured the maps in The Canine Café for a crumb of hope, the charred beans of the past fueling our resolve.

Our excursion was met with perils. Just outside the sanctuary of The Furry Friends Art Gallery, a gaggle of geese honked terrifying decrees, their feathers an ominous grey against the world’s despair. We ducked into The Barking Boutique, where raincoats were hastily donned — the disguise of practicality. “They won’t suspect us as poultry plunderers now,” I quipped, with a wit sharp as a terrier’s bark.

Kelpie Keys shimmered before us like a dream half-remembered, home to the sea-faring kin of dogdom. Here, we set sail on a skiff, no doubt donated by a benevolent St. Bernard. The journey was riddled with laughter and sea shanties unfit for polite company, as every pooch knows.

Then, rising from the mists, Bloodhound Bluffs loomed. “We’re refugees of rations,” Max announced boldly, jumping ship. We scented then-shreds of chicken, dancing within the air like Siren songs.

Forward we advanced, paws upon the pulse of adventure, until, “Behold!” a haven rich with chicken, guarded by none other than the hounds of Bloodhound Bluffs themselves.

Negotiations, I’ll spare you the tedious details, sufficed to say, my basset charm and Max’s spot-on diplomacy won us an alliance — and a generous helping of the coveted bird.

Triumphant, we returned to Pup’s Poutine, the spoils shared amongst our brethren. Luxuriating beneath the oil-painted sky, having feasted like never before, we basked in the hero’s glow.

Pawsburgh’s tale twines on, and as I lay now by that hallowed chicken trove, I muse. Perhaps it isn’t the world that’s ended; only a chapter of it. For in these streets, whiskers whisper new lore, and valiant tails scribe in the dust an epic of survival, friendship, and the unfailing pursuit of juicy poultry.

Olaf, chronicler of Pawsburgh, over and out.

The End.