Hey Dad, Guess what? Pawsburgh almost became a ghost town – no humans, just us dogs! But fear not, I stepped up and became one of the leading pooches, turning a town of chaos into one of K9-collaboration. We’ve got lookout spots, play parks, and even communal chow times. Miss you heaps, especially at night. Still holding onto the hope we’ll get those belly rubs again. Paws crossed! Tail wags and woofs, Bella 🐾✨

You wouldn’t believe it, would you? If I told you that Pawsburgh, our slice of heaven, was almost wiped off the map?

You see, it began when I woke up one morning on my favorite sunbathed patch –you know, the one by the broken fence, with just the right amount of dappled light? The air smelled like danger. Not the kind you dismiss with a sniff and a ‘hmph,’ but the kind that brings all fur on end.

Jack, my fellow ruffian, bounded over, ears akimbo and eyes wide. “Bella, you hear that?” he barked.

It was silence. An unsettling, smothering silence. No bark, no yap from the Jade Jack Russell Junction. No distant clatter of bowls from Snout Snacks. It was as if all the canine chatter had been vacuumed away. You remember my feelings toward the vacuum.

“Our humans?” I howled, sheer terror constricting my throat.

“Disappeared,” Jack growled, his usual jauntiness deflated.

That was how it was, after the calamity. Humans – gone. Pawsburgh – a ghost town. And us, a band of furry survivors, clueless on two paws. But as my dad would say, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” So, I squared my shoulders, Jack beside me, and off we ambled toward Pawsburgh Town Square.

The Barking Boutique’s dresses lay sprawled on the dusty floor, unsold and undignified. The Pooch Playhouse, desolate, echoed with the ghosts of games past. It was depressing – I’m not one to mince words.

But necessity is the mother of reinvention, so we put our muzzles to the ground, turning The Doggy Depot into our base. The remaining kibble, the harnesses, and what felt like a treasure trove of chew toys became our first spoils.

“We need a plan,” I declared, strategically placing myself between a freshly discovered tennis ball and Jack.

“We rebuild,” Jack barked triumphantly, a glint of old times in his eyes.

And rebuild we did. Mastiff Meadows became our hub for all the sunbathing you could dream of, sans interruption. Ruby Rottweiler Ridge? That was turned into the scout lookout – in case the humans came back.

Days turned into weeks. We established routines, makeshift families, and a semblance of society. I found myself leading pup expeditions in the park, uncovering supplies and spaces to play tug-of-war. I was no longer simply Bella – I was Bella, one of the leaders of the new Pawsburgh.

In the evenings, we’d gather at Puppy Plate, the only eatery we managed to revive. There, shared plates meant more than full bellies; they were whispers of hope and unity. I met a Dalmatian there, Spot was his name – had a fascination with polka-dots.

But did I miss my human? You bet your last chew toy I did. Evenings were the roughest, you understand. That’s when I would’ve curled up at his feet, the reassuring touch of a hand in my fur. No liberty in Pawsburgh could replace that warmth.

So, here we are. Not quite a tail-wagging end, but we’re muddling through, forging a new legacy. And though sometimes I wake, convinced I’ve heard a car pull up, or the jingle of a collar tag, it’s just the new world settling around us.

Pawsburgh lives on, and we – we live on for the belly rubs we remember and those we hope to feel again.

And somewhere, deep in my belly, where prime steak used to go, is a belief that they’ll be back – the humans – and when they come, we’ll wag our tails off in welcome.

Until then, it’s just us dogs and our Pawsburgh, brave and bold beneath the cloud-marbled sky.

The End.