“Hey hoomans, just saved the day again. Worked on my relationships, barked crucial details to my fellow canines, and even managed to chase that pesky squirrel from the garden. All in a day’s work for Super Shilo! Return the paw-me-five when you get home, okay? Woof you all, your favorite caped crusader, Shilo!”

I’d woken up to another day in Pawsburg, my ears tingling with the stillness that took the place of civilization. Sure, there was no more morning radio show to tune into and no hot coffee brewing, but my K-9 intuition clung with fervor to something else – the temperate symphony of bird tweets and nature’s whispers which were, once upon a time, drowned by the ceaseless hustle-bustle of humans.

The sun had barely reared its sleep-ridden head, when the search for sustenance began. I’m Shilo, you see; a German Shepherd of undeniably hardy stock, with the easy lope of an experienced scavenger. In the old days, I was a prime example of man’s best friend, a constant companion to a doting owner who went by the name Fredrick. Now, as the Alpha of Pawsburg, I was everything to everyone. Pawsburg, indeed was an interesting place full of peculiarity that only canines have a capacity to appreciate.

As the sun vaulted, bathing the decaying splendor of the old city in a hopeful glow, I trotted alongside the river, trusting my grizzled snout. It pointed to a scent of wild rabbit, the potential breakfast. The hunt ended rather swiftly and soon I was onto the next pressing order of the day – maintaining order in Pawsburg.

You see, Pawsburg, beheld as an embodiment of our freedom and survival, carried its own share of chewed bones. Microcliques of stubborn Dobermans and bullish bulldogs squared off over prime napping spots, terriers plotted thievery of precious food stocks, and there was an inexplicably high rate of hole-digging occurring of late. The golden rule of Pawsburg was ‘all four paws in for survival’, but alas, as I’ve been told, with freedom comes the thirst for the odd chaos.

But when your fur drapes the land like a somber tale of survival and resilience, there’s an unspoken command dogs listen to. As such, a stern bark from me, and a swift rushing here and there to quell misunderstandings, and Pawsburg fell into an agreeable if slightly whining rhythm.

My days meandered along such lines. Breathing in the desolate beauty of my domain, feeding, maintaining peace, and at the end of it, seeking the company of an old oak under the resplendent night sky. I missed my former owner, Fredrick. Oh, the tickling belly rubs he bestowed! But the melancholy is chased away by the looming responsibility of assembling the morrow.

The world may have succumbed to its anomalies, but as the grass grew in the abandoned soccer field and the river ran with a relentless current, the spirit of Pawsburg fluttered- determined and unbroken. For we are, as you must have perceived, tenacious creatures. I closed my eyes, cradled by the cold winds, imagining a world where every dog has its day, every day.

And if this curious tale of mine compels you to wonder whether there’s room for fear in this brave new world, let me leave you with this thought – we might be dogs, bred to be companions, protectors, and even jesters, but amidst the ruins, we’ve unearthed our truest nature – we are, at our essence – survivors. And survivors, my dear reader, do not fear the unknown, they transform it.