Hey Mom,

It’s your brave little scout, Kilo. Pawsburg isn’t quite the playground it once was, but I’m keeping the pack safe and our spirits up, scavenging the new wilds like a pro. Believe it or not, we’re teaming up with cats now! Times are rough but our tails are still wagging. We’re finding strength in the ruins and making memories with every paw print. Miss you more than a buried bone. Will bring you a blue ball when the world’s in one piece again.

Woofs and wags,

Kilo Smilo 🐾

The dim morning light filtered through the remnants of shattered windows as I stretched my limbs on the tattered sofa that had become my bed. Ghost black tri, they call my breed, which seemed fitting considering the post-apocalyptic hush that enveloped Pawsburg.

“Kilo, you awake?” The voice was gravelly, punctuated by experience and the scent of old bones.

“Yeah, Max,” I responded, my voice somewhat muffled by the white patch on my chest, which I had learned worked well as a makeshift muffler. “Was just dreamin’ ‘bout chicken treats.”

Laughter, like the crinkle of leaves underpaw, echoed through the empty street outside. That was Luna, gearing up for our daily forage.

We used to frequent Dog’s Delicacies for their extraordinary buffet, but the wares we sought now were far more elusive than a slab of bacon at brunch.

I joined my friends outside, where the once-lively Affenpinscher Avenue lay in silence, storefronts gaping like open jaws. The Snooty Snout Boutique, The Doggy Depot, The Woofy Bakery – all relics of a time when our biggest worry was choosing the right chew toy.

“Ever think ‘bout when we’d sprint in Vizsla Valley?” reminisced Luna, her ears twitching as if she could still hear the cheers of our friends from the good days.

“I do,” I affirmed, “But there’s a different race now. Survival.”

We moved as one, our pack an odd collection of those who had once only shared stolen glances and fence-bound barks.

The cats accompanied us, too – their sleek figures shadows that swayed in and out of our ranks. Despite the competition for resources, these felines had woven themselves into our narrative. We had mutual enemies now, enemies that didn’t discriminate between canine and feline.

“Ready for the daily dash from the mailman?” Max jibed, a tongue-in-cheek nod to the once daily ritual that rattled my nerves.

I snorted. “I’d take his clang and clatter over some of the noises we hear at night.”

Our course took us through Garnet Greyhound Grove, the air silent but for the crunch of our paws on debris. We were on a mission for sustenance – humans used to call it ‘shopping’, an adventure of a different sort.

Luna’s nose twitched at our desired quarry. “Over here,” she whispered, darting toward an overturned trash receptacle.

It was slim pickings – a meager drumstick here, a few morsels of hard bread there – not the prey we craved, but it would keep hunger at bay.

As the sun arced high and bathed my sleek coat with a radiance that felt oddly mocking, we settled in the shade of what remained of Setter’s Steakhouse.

“You remember that blue ball of yours?” Luna asked, her tone soaked in nostalgia.

“Could never forget,” I said, the memory of joyous yelps and endless games warming my spirit. “If these ruins could talk, they’d tell tales of our capers.”

“You think things will ever go back?” she prodded, awe and uncertainty mingling in her gaze.

I thought for a moment, then with a loyalty born of countless suns and moons spent together, I made my decree.

“If they do, Luna, we’ll be ready. And if they don’t, we’ll make our own way. We’re the walking pets, after all – always moving forward.”

We lay there amidst the remnants of our former world, bravery and fellowship our sustenance, as we watched over Pawsburg, the town that whispered to us of the past, and wagged its tail toward the uncertainty of the future.

The End.