Hey Dad,

Just wanted to let you know that today I was the Indiana Bones of Bassetville, sniffing out adventures and guiding the pack to food amidst the chaos. Found Roger in a pickle, gave him a noseful of wisdom. I’m the bacon-seeking hero of our post-apocalyptic tail, and we’re still wagging strong.

Catch you on the sniff side,

Rasco 🥓🐾

Episode 14: The Ballad of Bassetville

Listen: When the world flipped on its head and left us dogs to roam the ruins of Spencerville, I, Rasco, with my belly close to the ground and my sense of smell sharper than the guilt of stealing sausages, became somewhat of a legend. Not the kind you write songs about – songs are hard to come by these days, even in dog standards – but the kind that finds epic joy in sniffing out safe havens and leading the way with a wagging tail through the wreckage. Yes, we had seen better days in Spencerville, but who’s counting?

It was a day just like any other in this post-apocalyptic pantomime when the scent of adventure whiffed up my nostrils. A smell not unfamiliar, mind you – a hint of bacon mixed with the distant aroma of fear. We were in need of supplies, and the nose knows, oh how it knows.

The Howling Husky Hardware Store wasn’t far, just a trot past Poodle Pond, where the reflections of better times danced on the water’s surface. The pond, the pond was once a place of peaceful paddling and peppy pool parties. Now, it served as a reminder to lap up the good times – literally and figuratively – before they slip through your paws.

“Friends,” I announced to my pack, because that’s what you call a group of associated dogs in these times, “we’re on the march.” They perked their ears and tails followed suit. The destination was Yappy Yogurt, now a meeting point for foraging fur-balls like ourselves – furry scavengers on two-by-four legs.

We tiptoed past Bullmastiff Boardwalk, avoiding cracked planks like avoiding the topic of a world where mailmen no longer existed. A world scarce of treats, but overrun with treacherous trash-can bandits who looked at us with hungry eyes. But we weren’t their supper, no sir. We had dogged determination on our side.

As we made our rounds—me, leading with a stern but approachable demeanor; Sergeant Sniffles, who couldn’t sniff out a treat if it tap-danced on his snout; and Trixie, whose nine lives had to have been a clerical error because she was luckier than a cat—our quest for delights and survival continued in tandem.

“Don’t dilly-dally,” I quipped in a tone as dry as the biscuits they once tried to pass off as treats. Respond they did, with swift moves and keen eyes.

Suddenly, a rustling. From the depth of the Delicious Doggy Deli, a shadow emerged. Not friend nor foe, just poor old Roger the Retriever, wrapped in the aroma of expired kibbles.

“Rasco, mate,” he barked, a tail wag short of despair, “got any leads on grub?”

I considered my answer carefully, pondering the weight of my words. “Roger, my dear confounded comrade, the art of the find is in the nose of the beholder.”

He shrugged, a gesture wasted on a Retriever with existential dread. “You headin’ to The Woofy Bakery?”

“We’re contemplative connoisseurs on our way,” I answered, a half-truth flavored with cryptic charisma.

And so, off we shuffled, our spirits undeterred. Because in Spencerville, even with the world half-chewed and spit out, we were the tail-waggers, the bone-buryers, the sniffers of dawn. We were the walking pets, forever pawing our way through the aftermath in search of the endless spring of bacon-scented sunrises.

Because boy, oh boy, between you and me, I could sniff out that bacon from a tail’s length away, and that’s the equivocal truth. Or at least, that’s how I’m choosing to narrate it.

The End.

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