Hey Mom,

Wish you could see me in Pawsburgh, the fallen world’s furry stronghold. I’ve become a local legend—sniffing out adventure, outpacing puddles, and even scoring a primo squeaker at the doggy trade post. Life here is a tail-wagging blend of survival, snuggles, and storytelling. Belly’s full, spirits high, and my tail’s forever chasing tomorrow’s tales. Miss you.

Snuffles and dreams,
Fatness 🐾✨

The world has gone to the cats, my friends—quite literally. Humanity’s last, cataclysmic curtain call left behind a void filled by whiskers and indifference. But we, the valiant dogs of yesteryear, we seek refuge in our own sanctum: Pawsburgh.

From my sun-beaten perch atop Bloodhound Bluffs, I survey the canine utopia. Once our owners have slipped into silence, we roam these streets. Today, I, Meili—the chunky, jubilant soul that I am—embark on a quest through the ruins of paradise with a heart as heavy as my body is light.

The day stirs with the scents of bygone chaos, but Whippet Way bristles with life. I dare not call it normal; the term expired long ago, alongside the days of easy walks and assured tickles behind the ear. Yet, we persist.

A rustle behind the rubble summons me back to the present; Barks echo, a meet-up. At Pearl Papillon Promenade, the conclave convenes, and skirmishes of wit unfold. The usual suspects—a motley pack, shadows of the old world, and guardians of the new.

Our itinerary? Survive tenaciously. Cuddle occasionally. Sniff out the last shreds of joy always.

We barrel through the debris-dotted streets towards Doggie Diner, a thing once dismissed as trivial now a cornerstone of what could be considered canine civilization. Their special? Hearty kibble stew with a side of marrow bone à la mode. I catch sight of table scraps, and with the grandeur of old, implore for a share—puppy eyes fully armed.

Bellies filled, whispers of our next haven waft through the pack: Paw-tisserie. For there, bread and potatoes—the blandest enemies to my taste—hold no court. Here, we feast on meat-filled pastries, our tongues savoring resilience.

Mid-way through a particularly daring jaunt to the Pooch’s Pizzeria, an unforeseen adversary leaps from the shadows. Pools! Or rather, puddles now, remnants of aquatic terrors. With confident bounds, much lauded by companions, I skirt their edges.

Our travels bear us to The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, a chewed nameplate swinging dolorously. Rebranded as a rally point, we trade trinkets: I snag a squeaker that challenges my prey drive by stubbornly defying rupture.

We share updates at Happy Hounds Dog Walking, or informally known as The Maps and Myths Salon. Stories weave, reality blurs, and legends (mostly of my exploits, would you believe?) are crafted.

Best in Show Photography nests at the crux of Pawsburgh, capturing fragmented gleams of hope. Snapshots of toothy grins, dirt-soaked and truly content, befit the age of Phoenix dogs. A gallery immortalizes the snouts that point determinedly toward tomorrow’s unknowns.

Our circle revels beneath a sky bruised with the twilight of a world ended, a new night commenced. Drawing together, accents of my friends’ rich tales caress my ears: jests and dreams mingling.

My day culminates curled up under the vestiges of a twinkling marquee, tail winding over nose. Stars speckle the darkened canvas, a backdrop to our canine chronicle. The old epoch, exhaled in a shared canine sigh.

The tale, dear reader, concludes not in despair, but an audacious pawprint. Meili, ever the Pocket bully with an insatiable appetite for life, dreams in the sanctuary of Pawsburgh, ever vigilant of an uncertain dawn. The promise of another day, another anecdote—another piece of our reclaimed world—beckons.

In a post-apocalyptic tableau, we are the survivors, the tail-waggers—crafting embellished fables, charging toward the unfathomable future with naïve joy and uncrushable spirits. And through the echoes of long-gone laughter, we build bridges over the ashes—in Pawsburgh, our unyielding refuge.

The End.

Share This Story: