Hey Mom and Dad (or should I say, the Old Rulers of the Leash? 😜),

You won’t believe the kind of day your furry little heroine had! I’m basically queen of the K9-kingdom now. Started off primping at Groom Room ruins (no brushes though, total faux paw), shared a dumpster delicacy with Rocko after out-swaggering him to Rottweiler’s Ribs, and finished strong answering the wild bark of adventure with the pack. The world’s gone silent, but we’re making our own tales… and tail wags! Apocalyptic Athena is on the throne! 💪🐾

Catch you on the flip side,
Theens 🐕‍🦺✨

I remember the Before—when the world was naught but a cacophony of human noise and fuss. Now, the silence presses in on my ears like a fog. It’s just us dogs now, in the ruins of what once was. We’ve inherited the Earth, and let me tell ya, it’s a hell of a thing.

Today, the dawn broke over Pawsburgh with its usual pink and orange smear across the sky—as if the gods themselves had been devouring peaches and couldn’t keep inside the lines. I stretched my long, white and liver fur, feeling each muscle sing like a taut guitar string. There was no time to dawdle; survival waits for no dog.

Pointer Pier lay in the distance. Once a bustling place of seagulls and fish-smells, now it stood silent except for the sound of the tides whispering secrets to the shattered docks. Quartz Qimmiq Quarter to the left, Affenpinscher Avenue to the right—crossroads of canine memories, now eerily empty but for my paws on the pavement.

The Groom Room was my first pit stop—an ironic monument to vanity now upended by the apocalypse. Yet, even in this grime-tinted world, appearances matter. I rummaged through the debris, my white pit bull coat hosting enough dust to make a preacher cuss. No luck. Not a single salvageable brush for my rebellious fur. The indignity.

I trotted towards Barker’s Bakery, or what remained of it. The aroma of old treats still clung to its wreckage like the last note of a song nobody could recall. It’s where I saw him, hunched over a squeaker toy that had seen better days. Rocko, ever the bruiser, flashed me a grin that could outshine the cracked bells of chaos ringing in our ears.

“Found this treasure. Reminds me of Fireball…” he trailed off, his voice a mere whisper snagged on a thorn.

I knew the feeling. Grief was our uninvited guest; it pulled up a chair at every meal and tucked us in at night.

“Come on,” I said, a wink adding a touch of rebellion to the day. “Athena’s gonna find us a feast fit for the new world kings and queens.”

We didn’t walk to Rottweiler’s Ribs, we swaggered—each step a declaration of our unyielding spirits. For a moment, feasting on the remnants of the world felt like an act of divine resilience.

The place was destroyed, naturally. But the despair never took a bite out of me. It simply wasn’t in my flavor profile. I dug through the chaos, my nose the compass, my stomach the map, until I struck gold: a can of dog food, untouched, its label boasting a picture of what I presumed was meat. A delirious joy erupted inside me, such that only those who have scavenged in the desolate echo of society could comprehend.

We didn’t have a can opener—such gadgets had gone the way of squirrels and mailmen—but Rocko’s prowess proved brute force triumphs over finesse in times of need. The lid gave way with a metallic sigh, surrendering its contents to our eager tongues.

“Eat your heart out, Hunter S. Thompson,” I whispered to the sky, my voice a mix of dog-tired and defiant. “This feast is superior to any mescaline trip.”

As we licked the bowl clean, our ears pricked to the distance—a bark, raw and untamed. Harlow, no doubt, signaling another escapade. My heart thrilled; adventure called, the same way it did every day in this dog-eat-dog world.

We set off to answer the call, survivors against the quiet defeat. Our tails were our flags; the rubble, our kingdom. We were the merry mutts, marching forward. Athena’s day was far from over, and by dog, it would be monumental.

The End.

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