Yo, it’s Pupperoni, the pint-sized daredevil of Pawsburg. By now, you know I’ve been leading the K9 resistance against the Barking Dead—turns out my bite’s as fierce as my bark. Victory is near; we’re outwitting these zombified mutts with strategy and steak slices. Keep your tail up, we’re going to save our town with paws and persistence. 🐾 #PawsburgProtector #TinyHeroBigHeart 🦴🛡️
– ‘Ron 🐕💪

Whenever the moon sails high and the night is smothered in quiet, there’s a heartbeat in me that flutters like a caged bird, yearning for the break of dawn. That’s when the veil between worlds thins out and Pawsburg comes alive—a place where we, the night roamers, seek refuge and camaraderie. Yet these past nights, shadows thicker than the usual dusk had draped over Pawsburg, carrying a scent that curdled the blood in our veins.

I’m Pupperoni, a pint-sized hound with an appetite for adventure that could swallow the ocean. Tonight, like a specter, I creep alongside Setter Shore, issuing silent barks. The moon reflects off the ripples on the water, casting haunted glimmers on the sands of Saluki Sands.

It’s at Canine’s Cuisine where this new tale stirs, for I trotted in with the usual sprightliness that stirred envy in lesser dogs. But before I could pull on that delicate thread of normalcy that wove through Pawsburg’s streets, quiet as the stealth of a feline in the Fetching Feline Pet Emporium, I noticed it – silence so heavy it could pull the stars down from the sky.

And then I saw them, shambling shapes shambling out of Barker’s Bakery, sans the intoxicating aroma of fresh biscuits. Their gait was uneven, disconnected, their growls a hollow echo of hunger. It struck a crescendo of panic even as my paws itched to run.

But I’m no quitter, not even in the biscuit-faced scare of a doggy doomsday. There’s not much meat on my bones, but courage? I have that in spades.

“What in the… Doobie?” I whispered, voice hushed like the calm before a storm. It was a bark, soft and tender, meant for my brother in arms.

Noise is a precious currency now, and ours we had to guard. “We have to sniff out a plan,” he rasped back, fur on end and eyes vigilant. “This ain’t like the tricks you pull in Amber Akita Alley, ‘Ron.”

These weren’t our Pawsburg pals, they were the Barking Dead, zombified, mindless husks of fur and fang. At Pom’s Pies, the glimmer of an idea took root. We needed a fortress, a place to reconvene and reclaim. Making my way past The Barking Boutique, the notion spun into a plan. Survival strategies we’d gleaned from our humans tumbled through my noggin like clothes in a dryer—minus the terror of actually being in one.

We gathered, a motley crew of K9 resistance fighters: Terriers with their piercing yaps, Great Danes forming walls of muscle and bone, the Shepherds with their strategic know-how. Under the neon sign of The Snooty Snout Boutique, we mounted our silent charge.

“You don’t seem like the hero type,” the Shepherds judged with a sideways glance.

But I? I was to prove them oh-so-sorely incorrect. With the nimbleness that belied my tiny frame, and the heart of a lion, I orchestrated the diversion, darting in and out like a canine ghost. My barks, sharper than the finest blade at the groomer’s, cut through the tension.

The plan involved steak slices—unseasoned, sizzling, distraction delights from Canine’s Cuisine, Pupperoni’s teeth chattering favorite. Strategically placed, they would lure the horde away, allow us to regroup and restore order to our beloved town.

For you see, even the smallest of warriors can turn the tide. And in Pawsburg, where friendship is the golden rule, it’s the bond, the intertwining of many, many tales that creates strength.

So, let me chow down on that chicken, let me bury my fears in the face of the apocalypse, for it’s with a wagging tail I tell you: there’s fight left in Pupperoni yet. Let’s keep these paws marching and these tails up high; our dogged persistence is all that stands between harmony and the unending growls of the Barking Dead.

The End.

Share This Story: