Hey Dad,

Quick update: I’ve become Pawsburgh’s post-human Sherlock, minus Watson but with a tail that won’t quit. Trying to sniff out why the humans left and bring back the bark to Barkmageddon. I’ve teamed up with Marley, and we’re on a tail-waggin’, treat-sniffin’ quest for answers. Hold the fort and the pickles ’til I’m back. Adventure calls!

Toby/Bubby

Episode One: “Barkmageddon”

It’s with a heavy heart—or would it be heavier if I could find that blasted pickle I’ve been avoiding—that I sit here beneath an oak in Basenji Bay, my sails-for-ears flicking at the ghostly hush of Pawsburgh. Where once there was a symphony of barks and yips, there now lies a silence that even cats, in their notorious stealth, might find unnerving. Tyler, if you’re reading this, know that your boy Toby didn’t cower when the shadows fell; he simply learned when to tread softly.

You see, the day the humans disappeared, we dogs found ourselves in an untitled chapter of our lives—untitled because who could have possibly thought to name a day that started with breakfast kibble and ended in… this? The sight of the Wagging Tail Bookstore all but hollowed out hits harder than I expected. Books strewn about like leaves in fall, tales of loyalty and companionship, mysteries and hauntings, none of which had prepared any of us for the haunting quiet of an actual mystery.

I was on my way to Shepherd’s Shawarma for a consolation feast—because let’s face it, end of the world or not, a Great Dane’s gotta eat—when I ran into Marley, an old Beagle from Newfoundland Nook. She trotted up, her once-gleaming coat dusted with the remnants of our toppled world.

“Toby,” she barked, that nasal quality still detectable even in the whispers required for post-pickle diplomacy. I mean post-apocalyptic discretion.

“Marley,” I replied, stiffening slightly. Our etiquette may have taken an unusual turn, but old habits die hard, and my instincts sniffed out an unease in her eyes. “You alone?” It was more statement than question.

She nodded, gesturing towards Kelpie Keys with a low, “follow me.”

Rounding the corner past Canine Couture Clothing—devoid of its usual bustle of fashion-forward terriers and poodles—we paused outside of what had been Dachshund’s Deli. The scent of smoked meats lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of soirées now silenced. Marley’s sniffles punctured the quiet.

“What’s it all about, Marley?” I finally asked, my voice strained with an emotion I had always reserved for Tyler’s departures—a cocktail of concern and unspoken fear, garnished with stoicism.

“I don’t know, Toby,” Marley breathed. “But the cats knew something. They left before it all went down.” A conspiracy theory—regardless, I filed the info under ‘important but puzzling.’

Nearing Kelpie Keys, the air grew thick with whispers, the sound of paws against earth growing steadily louder.

“It’s a gathering,” Marley murmured, and indeed it was. There, gathered by the Groom Room—now repurposed as a canine council chamber—were the leaders of the pack, conferring with the gravitas of elder statesmen.

Juniper, the wise St. Bernard, spotted us first. “Toby, Marley,” he boomed, his voice soft but resonant, “you bring news of the Deli?”

“Just memories, I’m afraid,” I responded, grimacing as the realization of the Rottweiler’s Ribs’ fate hung unspoken in the air like the phantom scents of lunchtimes lost.

What was I, Toby, a Brindle Great Dane to do in a world that had forgotten the bark? I had to be the rock, the fortress. It was time to step up—time to guide Pawsburgh through the rubble and into the light. Or, at the very least, keep the tails wagging and spirits from waning until the humans—hopefully—returned. And so, in the hushed tones of a lanky tap dancer sans stage, I proposed:

“A quest, my friends. To find out what happened, to sniff out the truth and chart a course to a future filled with belly rubs and abundant kibble. Who’s with me?”

Paws met earth, hope rekindled; together, we embarked on the adventure of a lifetime, narrated by none other than me, Toby. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, whether faced with pickles, empty backyards, or eerily deserted towns, it’s that with a good snout and a wagging tail, even the end of the world can be just another walk in the park.

The End.