Hey there, it’s Cathy the Canine Conqueror! Weird day turned my doggy ‘burb into a hound ghost town. No humans, just us pooches! Now I’m leading Max & Daisy on an all-paw adventure. Think “Furry Mad Max” with more tail wags and a quest for the Holy Grail of chicken. Pawsburgh won’t know what fetched it. 🐾✨ #ApawcalypseBoss

Ah, I recall that time, a peculiar morn in Pawsburgh when the sun opted to hide behind a duvet of ominous clouds, and the air—oh, the air was thick with a scent of uncertain tomorrows. It was on such a day that I, Cathy, the French Bulldog with the soulful eyes and cream coat, found myself waking on my favored patch of sun-warmed floor, which, perplexingly, was cool and unwelcoming.

I stretched, every muscle stiff, and let out a soft yawn, looking for my ratty tennis ball with an affectionate glance. It lay just out of reach, untouched, it seemed, for days. Max and Daisy were due for a romp through Doberman Dunes, and yet, no sign of my friends greeted my expectant gaze. Pawsburgh, my dear Pawsburgh, had changed overnight. The vibrancy of Woof and Whisker Wellness Center, Canine Couture Clothing, and the tantalizing aromas of Setter’s Steakhouse had vanished into an unsettling stillness.

The change was stark and immediate, as though Jeeves, the renowned dog who paints, had decided that sepia and ash were the new colors of choice for his latest masterpiece. Pawsburgh, once teeming with yips and yaps, was silent. And in that silence, instincts I had never known possessed gnawed at my consciousness. I ventured out, my senses heightened, nostrils flaring for a whiff of chicken (though decidedly not for an offending floret of broccoli). The need to find my friends, Max and Daisy, pulsed through me with each tentative step.

As I ambled along Whippet Way, the sight of It—yes, with a capital “I”—stilled my pad-cushioned steps. There were no humans here, no dog walkers nor cheerful “Who’s a good boy?”—just…them. Hounds of the once Pawsburgh, now embodying a demeanor that bordered on the feral, trudging forward with eyes devoid of their usual spark, a staggering entourage of canine confusion.

It was then that a notion, implausible and yet gripping in its immediacy, struck me: we were facing an apocalypse of sorts. A world without the pressing insistence of a human’s hand pointing to “sit” or “stay.” At the helm of this oddity? Why, a queen must lead, and so, it would be I, Cathy, with a quiet determination (and a wisp of sass).

I padded on with steadfast purpose, sidestepping into The Pawsome Pet Pharmacy, hoping for a clue, any clue, that might hint at the whereabouts of Max and Daisy. The shelves were askew, the normally pristine floors scattered with traces of escapes resisted and retreats hurried. But wait—there! A sign as sure as any: the gleam of golden fur caught on a jagged nail. Max.

Once hesitant, my strides grew bold, even as the groans and muted howls of my altered neighbors filled the eerie quiet surrounding Rottweiler Ridge. The ridge, an ancient, noble landform within Pawsburgh, now seemed to lord over the chaos with indifferent stoicism.

I, Cathy, the once docile French Bulldog, discovered strength drawn from the dregs of a world disheveled. And as though plucked from a tale spun by a master storyteller, there! In the shadow of a fallen lamppost, Daisy’s signature white fur mocked the darkness, and beside her, the gallant figure of Max stood resolute.

Together, we embarked on a quest of survival, our days filled with searching for tidbits of normalcy. Setter’s Steakhouse, now a safe haven, provided the sustenance needed to press on; Whippet Wraps, a place of respite where strategy (and not little doggy jackets) were fashioned; Retriever’s Restaurant, where plans were devoured alongside morsels of collapsed society. The adventures—oh, the adventures!—were endless, our tales more captivating than any frolic among the dunes, each recounted with the gusto of pristine canines undaunted by their tumble into dystopia.

Therein lies the beating heart of Cathy’s story—a saga of survival, friendship, and the ever-demanding quest for that perfect bit of chicken, all within the remnants of Pawsburgh. And as for baths, let’s just say, in this brave new world, such frivolous matters were the least of our concerns.

The End.