Hey Mom,

Just checking in from Pawsburgh post-Great Shake. Today I, Meili (a.k.a. Fatness), rolled with my pack to tackle the Growlers, saved some tail, and restored a hint of order ’round these parts. It’s rough out here, but this underdog’s doubling down on loyalty and hope. Belly rubs and bravery – that’s my daily grind!

Wags and woofs,
Meili 🐾

The world as we knew it had devolved into a place not unlike the crumb-laden recesses beneath a toddler’s high chair after a meal of spaghetti – chaotic, unrecognizable, and a tad bit saucy. This was Pawsburgh post-the Great Shake, the quake that jostled collars and sent water bowls aflutter. I, the dauntless Meili, stood stubby and resolute upon the vestiges of Eskimo Estuary, its waters now a trickling memory, as I sniffed the air for a whiff of camaraderie.

Since the Great Shake, our merriments were few and our perils were as plentiful as the fleas on a stray’s back. I had been told of such calamities by the human to whom I was fondly tethered, during her indulgence in the grotesqueries of what she called ‘The Walking Dead.’ I never cared for such folly, but now, here we stood – a motley crew of canine survivors.

“Tail wags to you, Meili,” barked a voice from behind. I turned to see the towering figure of Kaiser, the Great Dane, his harlequin coat speckled with the dust of ruins. “Haven heard any news from Pinscher Plaza?”

I shook my head, my ears flapping with solemn gravity. “No bark nor bite has reached me from thence,” I responded. “But we must rally and sally forth. There are pups who depend on us.”

Accompanied by Kaiser, I trotted through the once bustling streets, now quiet as a cat’s conscience. The Groom Room lay in tangles, Pawsitively Purrfect Pet Store ransacked, leaving chew toys strewn like bones upon a battlefield.

We reached Poodle’s Pasta, now just a heap of timber and tagliatelle. “Perhaps we can salvage something for a meager feast,” suggested Kaiser. I nodded in agreement. Scavenging was now our way of life, but we did it with the dignity of a dog who had twice eaten his own vomit – with reluctance and a hint of shame.

“Oi! Over here!”

A voice hailed us from the shadows. Into the light emerged Ginger, a plucky Beagle, her tail a semaphore of urgency.

“Trouble at Fido’s Feast,” she relayed breathlessly. “Growlers, a whole pack of them.”

Growlers, the term we’d come to loathe, applied to those mangy mongrels, the hangers-on of society, now grown rabid in their hunger for dominance. A Growler was a friend turned fiend, a mongrel made malevolent by the strain and stress of the Great Shake.

We set out with the speed of hares pursued by hounds. Fido’s Feast was where we’d find Mr. Puggleston—yes, the very Pug who’d once tipped his hat at every lady and licked his bowl clean with a monogrammed napkin. Now, we heard, he’d turned traitor, selling his soul for a scrap of meat.

I let out a low growl, my pocket-sized bulk swelling with indignation. “We will not let Puggleston nor his Growler gang spread their terror.”

We arrived at the venue amid a cacophony of barks and snaps. Kaiser’s silhouette loomed like a shadow of hope along a wall as I darted among legs, angling for leverage.

“Meili! The Growlers!” Ginger yapped.

I lunged forward, my stocky frame an asset, bulldozing into the nearest Growler with the force of a freight train in miniature. Kaiser’s jaws found Puggleston’s collar, pulling him back from the chaos he’d sown. Together, we reclaimed the restaurant, the din settling into a chorus of licks and wags.

As we stood among our brethren, I raised my snout, letting out a howl to the skies, a paean to our triumph. No, this was not the Pawsburgh of yesteryear, but resilience runs deep in the marrow of us dogs.

And so, my fellow Pawsburghians, we endure, play, and love—yes, still with a boundless zest—even as the world shakes, proving once and for all that we are truly The Walking Pets.

The End.