Hi Mom! Just wanted to let you know that I helped Julia find her lost bracelet and became a local hero. Nothing too big, just doing my part as a loyal pup! 🐾 Love, Wafflette. 🐶✨

Stumbling over a fallen chew toy in the dim glow of the moonlight, I paused to sniff the air, my little foxy nose twitching with apprehension. The scent of decay intermingled with the warm aromas drifting from Pupsicle Palace wafted over, tingling the edge of my senses and flipping my tummy in a flutter of excitement and dread.

I, WafflesWalnut, have traversed through my share of challenges—even if they were more of the sneaky-cat variety rather than the flesh-munching kind prevalent in Spencerville nowadays. And again, even here, despite the looming menace, there was that tasteful tease: the promise of steak and chicken nuggets from The Fetching Deli. Oh, how my memory stirred with pleasure at those flavors!

But I digress; there were more pressing matters at paw. Spencerville once radiated with joy and endless frolicking, but now an ominous shadow in the form of the Barking Dead cast a pall over this otherwise near-perfect haven. Dogs, once sprightly and playful, now roamed with jagged movements and hollow growls. The once-vibrant Tan Dalmatian Desert was now a desolate hub for the infected, their ominous howls echoing through its sandy expanses.

I had always considered myself a spirited adventurer, the forest paths of Westie Woods and the challenging climbs of Collie Canyon a testament to my energetic nature. But today marked the dawn of a new challenge, one that required more than just loyalty and intelligence—it demanded bravery and cunning.

It all began with a simple fetch game near The Tail Wagger’s Tailor. Oscar, the blue merle dachshund with his mismatched eyes and I were rehearsing our escape routes when a group of the undead hounds converged upon us. Despite the palpable tension, Oscar’s brow furrowed more from confusion than fear, his blue eye sparkling dully.

“I reckon we need a plan, partner,” I barked, scruffing up the ground for emphasis.

Oscar gave a solemn nod. “Indeed, Waffles. Steele and I have scoped out Pupsicle Palace. It might be the safest ground.” Steele, the grey and white pitbull, nodded in solidarity, his bulky form providing a sense of security.

At the mention of Steele’s name, a wave of memories came flooding back—our mischievous escapades, his protective nature. For a brief moment, I yearned for simpler times, when all that concerned us was a spirited swim or a sunny patch for sunbathing.

As we slunk past the lifeless forms lumbering in the streets, my mind wandered to my loved ones back home. “Mom,” I thought wistfully, the warmth of cuddling seeping momentarily through the cold apprehension. I missed our drives and her gentle hand, but confidence embedded within me that one fine day, we’d reunite and my purpose here would culminant in the joyous throws of our reunion.

We made our way to what seemed like the last haven—the now fortified Pupsicle Palace. “Mr. Duck and Rainbow Star used to think this place was magical,” I chuckled inwardly, a forced light-heartedness surfacing to pacify my nerves.

Creeping through the entrance, the scent of the familiar Pomeranian Bear blends mingled with an alien tension that hung thick in the air. Spencer, the Shiba Inu with his red fur gleaming under patches of moonlight, barked orders, propelling us to bar the doors and windows.

“Glad y’all made it!” he huffed, his tail steady. Despite the graveness of the situation, Spencer’s usual playfulness flickered behind his resolute disposition. “We need all paws on deck. Reporting for duty?”

I squared my stance, the image of Wafflette bouncing back to the surface—my nickname here, courtesy of my notorious burrowing-in-snow antics. Playful, yet dependable—that was me.

With the Palace secured, we settled down, catching our breath whilst observing the boundary where the sparkling twilight of our world clashed with the encroaching gloom of the Barking Dead. This place, once teeming with playful wagging tails and synchronized barking choruses, would prevail.

“They may be the Barking Dead out there,” I murmured, the camaraderie of my fellow furry friends providing a steely resolve, “but here we live, love, and wait, bound by the unswerving belief that good times, our times, will return.”

And so, nestled within the fragrant embrace of the Pupsicle Palace, we watched, we waited, and we hoped—our spirits incandescent in the face of the encroaching dark, just like the sunbeam patches we’d once lazed in, lighting the promise of a new day.