Hey there,

Just a quick pupdate from your furry bud, Dozer. Led the pack to victory today over some rowdy raiders at Blue Basenji Bay. Not all heroes wear capes, some of us sport collars. The streets are quieter now, but the spirit of Pawsburgh is loud and clear. Tucking in with my flamingo sidekick – saving the world, one snarl at a time. So yeah, that’s a day in my paws.

Catch ya on the flip side,
Dozer 🐾✨

In Pawsburgh, the sun still climbed daily over Ruby Rottweiler Ridge, even after the world of two-legs had gone silent. I, Dozer, a bulldog of finely marbled brown and white, harken to those bygone days when the belly rubs were plentiful and the word ‘walkies’ set tails a-wagging. This is my story, or a scrap of it, in old Pawsburgh.

It was a morning as any other, with the abandonment of night’s embrace and hints of twilight peeking behind drawn curtain clouds. I found myself on Shiba Inlet, the wash of the sea gnawing away at the edges of my thoughts, the stuffed flamingo, my trusted ally, accompanying me. For you see, in a world without two-legs, toys are more than mere playthings; they are the vestiges of a past life.

The air held remnants of salt and scavenged dreams while I made my way to the Cooperative of Canine Culture, a once bustling location now overgrown with tales and dandelions. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, was to lay the foundation for a new era, one with barks and yips of hope. Spaniel Spaghetti, Retriever’s Restaurant, all the landmarks of cuisine – we’d tend them to life again, a sprout of civilization in a wild new cosmos.

Yet that morning carried a weight, different from the heft of my frame or the heave of my contemplation. “Dozer,” a Chihuahua called out, perched atop the sign of Collie’s Cuisine. She was the unofficial lookout, for dangers seen and unseen, “There’s been a scuffle at Blue Basenji Bay – mongrels raiding supplies!”

I glanced over at my golden flamingo. A plan. A raid of our own was in the offing; I could sense it. I trotted to The Doggie Daycare, our current base of operations, to rally the troops. Paws met earth with fortitude, every bound a predication of the fellowship to convene.

Once our pack assembled, all glanced my way. “Fellow four-paws,” my voice echoed through the assembled muzzles and whiskers, “We must unite, not simply to retrieve what was ours, but to temper our spirits against the night that encroaches our hearts.”

Thus, we sallied forth, through streets deserted by cars and caressed by wildflowers. The marauders were a wily lot, a hodgepodge of hounds and rogues who believed chaos to be their new master. I’ve never favored confrontation, but in this new world of teeth and claw, I become as much a bulwark as the most stalwart of companions. We clashed in a cacophony of growls and snarls, a dance as old as the alpha bloodline, vying for our Pawsburgh – our hope.

Wearied and wiser, we returned to Shiba Inlet, bandages of herbs and leaves, our treasure reclaimed. For me, the lure of loud triumph held no appeal. Rather, in the silence of a job well done, I nuzzled my flamingo and watched the stars wink above Ruby Rottweiler Ridge.

That night, as I laid my head upon my paws, the world not so grim, the past not so distant, I knew that every day hence would be a stitch in the quilt of a brighter tomorrow. I envisioned Retriever’s Restaurant full again, Collie’s Cuisine aglow with camaraderie, and maybe, just maybe, the sound of a can opener resurrected.

In the post-apocalyptic tapestry of Pawsburgh, we survivors journey forth. And I, Dozer, American Bulldog, humorist, reluctant hero, and plush toy aficionado, remain central to the woof and warp of our reclaimed society.

The End.