- Dog Tales
- April 28, 2024
Pawsburgh: Canines Unite in the Post-Apawcalyptic Tale of Tito the Corgi: A Tito PawWord Story
Hey fam,
Just a corgi update from Pawsburgh – still wagging amid the ruins! Led a one-dog parade through Terrier Town, did some soul-searching at Spaniel Spaghetti, and took creative control of Happy Hounds. I’m low-key ruling this robo-apawcalypse and keeping our tails wagging for when you return. Paws are dirty, spirit’s high, and my heart’s right here with the pups. We’re surviving and sniffing out a future one day at a time.
Stay pawsome!
Toto – Tito Joseph aka Toe Head
Beyond the wilted daisies and the broken fire hydrant, there’s a place that’s hanging on a hope and a sniff, an oasis amidst the chaos. Like, literally, this place exists because trust—Fido’s Best Friend would not lie. It’s Pawsburgh, and it’s been a hot dog’s minute since everything went tail over paws and the humans just up and vamoosed. Poof, like a treat gobbled up by yours truly.
So, imagine me, Tito—a corgi with an appetite for adventure and snacks, whisking through the rubble. “And what rubble it is,” I think, dashing through Topaz Terrier Town—once a pup’s paradise, now a canopy of broken dreams and snapped leads.
You know how in like, movies, they have those moments where everything slows down, becoming ultra-dramatic, as the dashing hero strides through devastation? Imagine that, but furrier, and with more drool. Now, picture this: me, ears perked, trotting on my tiny, valiant legs, the embodiment of perseverance and doggedness (pun absolutely intended), amidst the ghostly howls of Garnet Greyhound Grove.
“Hark!” ears twitch. It’s the bell of Beagle Bagels tinkling like a beacon of hope in the doughy distance. I’d recognize that ring anywhere—like the jingle of my leash. With nary a soul—or snout—in sight, it’s survival mode down in the Quartz Qimmiq Quarter. The silence is eerie, like when you know you’ve done something wrong, and you’re just waiting for the hoo-man to find the evidence.
I scamper on, corgi tail in the air, like a fluffy periscope navigating through the apocalypse. That’s when I see it, or rather, smell it—Spaniel Spaghetti remains untouched, an overcooked pasta dish forever anticipating its guests. And the Setter’s Steakhouse—where the steak knives lie as they were hastily abandoned, their last battle an unfinished symphony of slicing.
“Veni, vidi, vici,” I bark to no one in particular, because, like, bravado. Lily would’ve laughed; Bella would’ve rolled her eyes, their mustachioed faces now just memories woven into the wind.
Here’s the rub: the human-less landscape isn’t all bad. I mean, there’s Happy Hounds Dog Walking—transformed into the Happy Hounds Running Wild and Free (fine, I took creative liberty there). And The Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, which really, if I’m being honest, was always kinda off-putting what with their pretentious catnip and judgmental stares. Now it’s a buffet of chew toys and endless napping spots.
Each paw-step lays claim to a new challenge; to re-forge the world, to fill the void with barks and yips and the comforting rumble of snoring pups. The Howling Husky Hardware Store remains, the shovels and seeds untouched, ready for paws to dig, to plant, to strive for the promise of a future harvest.
“Like, I mean, can you even with this?” I’d say, all Mindy Kaling-level sass, if my pack were here to hear it. But it’s just me—Tito, the unlikely chronicler of canine resilience, trying to make sense of this overturned kibble bin we call life.
I plod on, picturing in my mind’s eye what I’ll relay to my beloved two-leggers, should they ever return. Wild tales of a pocket-sized corgi who surveyed the aftermath, scavenging not only for sustenance but for snippets of joy and companionship within the shattered windows of our dog-eat-dog reality.
So let’s tip our water bowls to the brave, to the survivors, to the pups who’ve made this ghost town more than just a backdrop to our story, because at the end of the day, the heart of Pawsburgh beats strong, under my fluffy chest and in the paw prints we leave behind. It might be post-apocalyptic, but it’s not post-apawcalyptic—not on my watch. Canines unite!
The End.
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