Hey Dad,

Just checking in from the end of the world. I’ve become something of a heroic terrier, leading a motley crew of furry pals through rubble and ruins to find a new hope (I’m basically the canine Mad Max). We outwitted zombie pugs today – they’re joining our ragtag team now. Heading to Pawsburgh for a boat, chasing down the dream of a better tomorrow and a decent sandwich. Keep your tail up – we’re surviving and thriving in spite of it all!

Catch you on the flip side,

Linny 🐾

I suppose it’s a rare creature that doesn’t find post-apocalyptic scenarios a bit disconcerting, but I, Linny the AmStaff, tend to look at the bright side of things. Of course, even I can scarcely see the silver lining in a world where a mere shadow of civilization remains, and the growl of what used to be a vacuum is now the least of one’s worries.

Here I am though, standing amidst the ruins – which if I’m honest, look very much like my chewed-up Carrot toy after an especially vigorous session of play – contemplating my next move. The sky was a palette of ever-changing grays, which was quite fitting for the melancholic theme of the day.

“Linny,” a tiny voice squeaked beside me. That would be Simba. His long hair was matted from our recent adventures through the half-rubble, half-forest that once proudly stood as Earth. He looked up at me with eyes that could star in the tiniest of tragedies. “What’s the plan?”

Ah, plans. Plans are to life what flavor is to food, and in terms of flavor, I’m particularly fond of savory moments, much like a good steak sizzling quietly over a lost fire. “We head to Pawsburgh,” I declared with a confidence that, while perhaps unfounded, was absolutely necessary. “Remember Pointer Pier? I bet we could find a boat.”

We set out – a ragtag assembly of paws, where I, the terrier, had been elected leader, presumably for my insatiable energy and protective instincts (not to mention the bravery it takes to overcome the horrors of ear cleaning).

Nearing the entendres of Pawsburgh, the atmosphere was surprisingly charming for a dog-eat-dog world – apocalyptic puns intended. We navigated the place like seasoned survivors, which truth be told, we were not, despite the front I was putting up. I couldn’t help but notice how the shambles reminded me of my favorite parks, minus the squirrels and, well, the life.

“Sniffer’s Sandwiches!” Simba yelped as we stumbled across the remains of what was once a top-tier establishment for the discerning canine palate. A pang of nostalgia hit me like the smell of a juicy morsel.

It was then, as we rummaged through the debris for any scraps of a past delicacy, we heard the thunderous sound of paws. A pack of wild, zombified pugs came waddling in our direction, their empty gaze set on us.

Simba trembled. This was it. The stand. With a heavy heart and a defiant growl, I stepped forward, prepared to protect my realm, my friends, as the pugs approached like a sluggish stream of drooling doom.

But suddenly, I chuckled. These were not the villains of our story, they were merely pugs; pugs who looked far more frightened of us than we were of them.

“Friends,” I called out, “these creatures aren’t our enemies; they’re lost, just like us!”

With tails wagging cautiously, we approached them. Who knew, perhaps in this desolate world, we could still find allies, a new pack, a new hope…

In the distance, Pyrenean Peak loomed, its once dignified snow-capped top buried under soot and sorrow. Yet this evening, it seemed to beckon, a silent sentinel promising the advent of a new quest.

And so, we marched on towards Pointer Pier, bracing ourselves for whatever this dog-made disaster had in store. I couldn’t say what tomorrow would bring, but in true Douglas Adams fashion, I maintained a perfectly reasonable amount of improbable optimism, and, just for measure, a solid belief in the power of a good sandwich, even amid the apocalypse.

The End.