Hey Mom & Dad,
I wanted to let you know that I helped Tim find his lost glove, chased away the pesky squirrels, and even made a new friend at the park today. Busy day, but all in a day’s work for me! 🐾
– Meaty

I’d heard tales of old Spencerville before the Big Blink, tall whisperings of human hustle and bustle like so many ants busy at their hills. Now, the streets are filled with flimsy structures made of whatever debris folks can scrounge up from the rubble. An air of desperation hangs thick like last night’s dinner—and that brings me to old meatball, me, the scrappiest mutt in this newfangled world, wandering and working for my spot around the fire. Naturally, it’s tough for a dog to get by, but I’ve kept my nose clean and ears pricked for danger.

Folks here call me Meatball on account of my love for scavenging. You see, after the Big Blink, a dog learns to appreciate the finer things in life, like the soft, succulent middle of a corned beef hash can tossed from a scavenger’s bag.

We were all trying to rebuild some semblance of society here, in our own quirky, half-baked ways. The rules of Spencerville are simple enough—share what you’ve got, take only what you need, and keep your paws to yourself. Comes naturally to me. Or at least, it does till someone’s grilling a sausage.

One particular brisk morning, I found myself tailing Old Man Jenkins—his grizzled face a mosaic of worry lines and white beard. He was mumbling to himself, eyes darting around as though expecting civilization to spring from the cracked sidewalks.

“Now, Meatball, you mark my words,” he grumbled and patted my head absentmindedly, “We’ll get this town back on its feet. People ain’t so different from dogs. We just forgot how to wag our tails.”

I snorted in agreement. He’d always been one for long-winded optimism. The truth was, Jenkins had a knack for stash sniffing that’d make any hound green with envy. We’d been patrolling what used to be a hardware store. Now it’s more of a splintered skeleton of rust and memories.

With a snap of his fingers, Jenkins motioned me towards a corner. Lo and behold, there it was—an unopened can of ravioli. I reckon the ecstatic wiggle of my hindquarters would have moved a mountain.

“Hold your horses!” Jenkins laughed, easing the can into a pot over our makeshift fire, which sputtered sullenly like it was giving a half-hearted protest against the load.

That night by the fire, it was Jenkins, a couple of scruffy kids who thought reading stories about electricity was more fun than finding food, and me. The firelight played tricks with shadows, making us look more like phantoms of an old world than pioneers of a new one.

“Meatball, you ever wonder what life was like before?” Jenkins asked, his voice deep and rich as though he was reading aloud from the annals of lost history.

I perked up my ears and tilted my head. I’d heard enough stories about the Big Blink to know my ancestors had it easy—a life of belly rubs and dog parks—but I couldn’t fathom it truly.

“Ah, but you’ve got it good,” he continued. “No rent, no taxes…just your doggy goodwill and your paws.”

The children giggled, their laughter a sound as rare and precious as rain. I wagged my tail, understanding in my own way. We may never rebuild Spencerville to its former glory, but in our mismatched, scraggly way, we were piecing together something different—something that felt snug around the edges.

As night wrapped us in its quiet embrace, Jenkins patted my head again, his touch softer, filled with gratitude for my quiet, loyal company. Tomorrow would bring more scrounging, more tales of what used to be and what could be once again. But for tonight, we had our laughter, our fire, and—a small triumph in itself—our can of ravioli.

And there, among the ghosts and remnants of a forgotten world, it dawned on me that sometimes, even when the bones are old and the meat’s long gone, you can still find sweetness in the marrow. We were just scraping by, but we were doing it together, and in Spencerville, that made all the difference.