Hey Mom and Dad, ventured into a new world today, seized an adventure, foiled a cat’s mischief, and made new friends. All’s well, tails wagging vigorously. Love, Truckie.

There is something indomitable about the spirit of us dogs, something that tales of calamity have no bunching on. Wagging our tails through the adversities of life, we always seem to find our dish half full rather than half empty, even when it’s entirely empty and we’re left chomping it into splinters out of sheer optimism.

From the wasteland, sprouted a metropolis of mismatched and dilapidated buildings known as Pawsburg, a haven for dogs to tweak the remnants of what was once a cherished human realm.

It was around the time when Pawsburg had held its first Sunday chew toy market that my dear friends and I undertook a quest for the Holy Grail, if you will. Mind you, it was not a grail, per se, rather a bone. But, not just any bone – the leg of a prehistoric Mammoth that lay somewhere in the unchartered radioactive wastelands on the outskirts of Pawsburg.

Frolicking down Canine Crescent, with my ears flopping up and down, I made haste with my hearty pier of dogs; one a gnarled Old English Sheepdog with a wisdom beyond his years and another, a fiery Dachshund with the ambition of a lion. We were a joyous rabble, laughing our way down the dusty track towards the day’s uncertainty.

“Oh, Buck, carry on like that and you’ll have the birds in the air laughing so hard they’ll fall right out,” I said, shaking my head at the sheepdog’s antics. His hearty barks echoed back, retaliatory.

Arriving at the Mouth of Misery, words uttered since time immemorial started playing patty-cake inside my ears. “Bones of grandeur bring no pleasure but in dreams. Seek not the sunken truths of life in the realm of bones and strife.” A poetic notion indeed. Perhaps this was too risky after all?

I then looked at Buck, reminiscing tales of his past conquests, and Snippy snapping at the air in resolution of our goal, I felt reassured that I was in good company.

Undeterred, we advanced. Weathering through toxic storms, we swiveled and ducked under the claws of deadly rad-squirrels and, before long, our mission rewarded us with the sight of an unusual formation protruding through the irradiated sands.

Sunken under years of obscurity was the infamous leg bone of the prehistoric Mammoth. At that moment, the spirit of exhilaration waltzed through our hearts. Facing east, tail erect, I howled in victory, my fellow adventurers partaking in the jubilation.

Surviving through his wits and firepower, a dog ousted from its throne of comfort had instigated a quest that brought about a newfound unity among the chaotic symphony of a post-apocalyptic Pawsburg.

Could it have been simpler if such chaos were avoided? Certainly. But when life’s given you lemons, you bury them in the yard, my friend. Because in the end, it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.