Hey there,

It’s your resident herder, Kara-May, now turned storyteller of Spencerville! 🐾 Miss my old life herding in Spruceville, but finding new purpose in our canine utopia. From intellectual debates at the Howling Husky Hardware Store 🛠️ to culinary capers at Chow Down Chow Chow 🍖, I’m weaving joy into our days post-humanity. Remember, it’s not the years in life, but life in those years. New dawns, new tales. Together, we’re pawing towards a future filled with hope and tail wags.

Keep sniffing the good stuff,
K-May 🐕✨

“Forgive me, gentle listener, for I am about to weave a tale threaded with both melancholy and hope, like a silken skein dyed in contrasting hues. I am Kara-May, and in the before times, I fancied myself a keeper of order in a world scented with pine and softly spoken stories.”

It was on a day marked by celestial misfortune, when the skies turned the color of old bruises, that humanity ceased in the once bustling Spruceville, and I found myself trotting through the now silent streets, a lone herder without a flock. My snout, always a compass for comfort, led me through a vortex created by the cataclysm, a cosmic doorway to Spencerville, a sanctuary for those of us of the four-legged persuasion.

Here in Spencerville, my days are episodes of new beginnings. I jog through Cream Maltese Meadow, its eponymous residents lounging like lords amidst the soft grasses. I have yet to visit the illustrious Fawn Cream Maltese Meadow, but I do fancy that will be a romp to remember.

The Howling Husky Hardware Store is a regular haunt; after all, one needs tethers and tools to rekindle a sense of normalcy. It’s there I chat with Mr. Whiskers about matters as profound as squirrel migrations and as inane as the daily chore of maintaining his shimmering coat. I still remember his words from yesterday, “Kara-May, it isn’t the age in your life, it’s the life in your years that count, my dear.”

Pixie, the hummingbird-terrier buzzes around me. We often spar in banter, exchanges quick as her dashes. “Kara-May, if you stood in The Fetching Deli for an hour, you’d herd every sandwich into geometric alignment,” she quipped once, receiving in return nothing but a wag and a grin from me.

Ah, and the delights of Chow Down Chow Chow! Elsie, my dear Elsie, never did catch on to the artistry of canine cuisine; smoked salmon was our limit. But here, the feasts are fashioned by paws – the irony of dogs preparing meals without opposable thumbs is not lost on me. It’s a novelty to dine without turning up my nose to repel the zesty assault of citrus.

I cherish dawn still, as it is neither too raucous with the calls of cockerels nor too serene in its solitude. It is my canvas, a promise of another day without the people we lost but with the friends we’ve gained.

My siblings are the whistling wind here, echoing laughter and the shared weight of absence. Through them and the connections I’ve forged, I am woven into Spencerville’s evergreen embrace.

This post-apocalyptic world is not one of ruins, but of reimagined pathways, a recast society that indulges in the joy of reminiscence. Here, we rebuild not in brick or stone, but in the fondness for a past life and the anticipation of reunions in sunlit meadows. Each episodic sunrise pounds a fresh beat into the heart of our little town, our paws a steady drum, writing a rhythm for the future we’re waiting for, together.

The End.