Hey Mom,

Just a quick update from the frontlines of Furry Armageddon – I’ve gone from sunbathing to survivalist in what’s now known as Spencerville’s Poochpocalypse. Soco and I are sniffing out perils and uniting bark-kind in the ruins. Think less ‘Homeward Bound’ more ‘Mad Max: Furry Road’. We miss you. Hold the pets till we’re back from our tail-wagging odyssey.

Licks and wags,
Stitcharella 🐾✨

I shall recount to you the extraordinary saga of our survival, an epoch stitched together, if you’ll pardon the pun, by my own pawsteps and the relentless drumming of my steadfast heart.

There I was lounging under the massive oak in White Westie Woods, the sunlight freckling my fur, when the world went sideways. A strange hush fell over Spencerville and, mark my words, the silence was more unsettling than the loudest thunderclap or the fiercest growl from Black Bulldog Bay under a stormy sky.

I raised my snout, scenting the air; something was amiss— a tang beyond the usual savory wafts from Pupperoni Pizza or the fragrant leavings at Bow Wow Burgers. This had a whiff of sheer, stark terror—a scent no dog, no pet should ever have to nose.

With a guttural yip, I summoned my wits and scampered off in search of my lifelong scallywag accomplice, Soco. You see, in times of calamity, it’s with friends that one truly counts their biscuits.

I found her, her ears flat against her head, her body tensed as if preparing to pounce upon unseen perils. “Soco,” I called softly, my voice barely a whisper against the roar of the empty unknown.

“Stitch,” she replied, her eyes wide and fretful. “Something has savaged the world we know. Look yonder at The Pooch Playhouse. See how it sits desolate, a hollow memory of yesteryear’s romps.”

Together, we padded through once-familiar haunts, our steps cautious, unsure. The Canine Cafe, where once we’d lapped at frothy bowls of bone broth, stood in ruins. The Woofy Bakery, purveyor of fine canine confections, was but a shell; its shattered windows gaping like the maws of giant, ravenous creatures.

Our journey led us to Western Husky Hill, where the turf beneath our paws had grown wild and unruly. Gone were the days where cookies were our spoils, replaced now with the grim necessity of survival. The dread lemon was a wretched thing—yet as my taste buds had long told me, a bitter dose often precedes a necessary change.

As Soco and I ventured forth, seeking out our kindred spirits among the havoc, we became The Walking Pets of repute. Petty quarrels and squabbled treaties were abandoned; only fellowship remained. Every step a declaration, each bark an anthem of our endurance.

No, the world of Spencerville was no longer the carefree romp we knew. Now, it became our proving ground, our labyrinth of trials. And as we danced the delicate waltz between perishing and persisting, we held onto the fervent hope of reunion, a crescendo of devotion baying for our beloveds beyond.

For in this post-apocalyptic Spencerville, you see, we belles and beaus of bark and bite were not merely surviving—we were learning the art of living anew. Every sunrise a chance to sniff out another day, every gust a tale of where we might bed down under the stars, safe for a night.

And so here I say to you, carrying the torch of our legacy, with a heart feral with love and paws itchy for the morrow, we await the day our human friends will come a-knocking at Spencerville’s gate once more. But until that time, my tale is one of The Walking Pets, and I, Stitch, your humble and toothy narrator, remain ever vigilant, ever hopeful, and ever in pursuit of the next chapter of our shared narrative, weaving through an unyielding world with a beagle’s brave heart.

The End.