Yo Mom and Dad, AKA Truckie’s Troupe,

Pawsburgh’s been wild today, sans humans! Smell ya l8r Beagle Beach, hello town center. Weird seeing everything so quiet. Rosy paws got a bit moist from the unexpected shower. Walk got so hyped when I found a fancy new b-ball at Barking Boutique! No humans, but us dogs, we’re holding paw-fort here. Look after yourselves; Pawsburgh’s still got its bark.

Mr. Truck (Stinky Bum) 🐾

So there I was, in the middle of Pawsburgh, the sun just peeking over Siberian Summit, casting long, dramatic shadows across the streets. This wasn’t your average Sunday saunter. No, sir. Welcome to another day in Pawsburgh – a sneakaway paradise for us dogs whenever our owners hit the snooze or embark on one of their annoyingly frequent out-of-town jaunts.

I, Mr. Truck, English Bulldog extraordinaire, was meandering towards Spotted Red Beagle Beach – my hulky figure more waddle than walk, the patches over my muscular flanks a testament to countless canine battles of legend. “Hey, Truck!” A friendly bushy tail wagged at me from The Bark Shak. That would be Baker, always Mr. Early Bird, eyeing his favorite doggie-burger with a badly-concealed carnal desire.

Regardless, I continued onward, my deflated basketball squashed beneath my strong jaw. You would say, “What fun’s that ball, Truck?” To which I’d respond, “Plenty.” Anyway, our minds don’t always align, do they? Like my unusual predilection for Pup-Cakes serve, over your favorite Sniff ‘n’ Snack bites.

Cruising down downtown Pawsburgh, I passed by The Canine Cafe. Usually bustling, the quiet was eerie—it ain’t no post-apocalyptic world, but it sure felt hauntingly close. Humanless, we were caught in the crosshairs, the walking pets of Pawsburgh. And then it began to rain, every droplet hitting me like a cruel joke. The pet shop’s looming giant sign, ‘Pet Partners Pet Supplies,’ reflected in each watery splash. An eerie sight for sore paws, I tell ya.

As I made my way through Western Husky Hill’s muddy trails, my underbite sticking out slightly, a testament to my resilience, my unmistakeable visual coupled with my wit, I couldn’t help but worry about my pals, Sister Sadie, Loki, Nugget, Big Albert, Ridley. We’d survived lonesome Sundays, dull owners, oddball hobbies, but this sudden shift was ain’t no rom-com, folks. This was the real deal, a world beyond Pawsburgh.

Finally, the rain resigned, the clouds giving way to patches of blue. Shaking off my beastly coat, I lumbered over to The Barking Boutique. Wouldn’t hurt to explore, right? And lo’ and behold! There before me laid a treasure – an inflatable, sparkling, brand new basketball. Ironic, ain’t it? Entire world’s falling apart, and here I was, Mr. Truck, all pounds and underbites of me, overjoyed by a mere toy. Lord, if this were a sitcom, the comedic timing would kill ya.

So there you have it. Pawsburgh locked in a standstill, its bustling life paused, but not lost. We were still kicking, still barking, facing a post-human world with dogged determination. Even as I returned from my Whirlwind Tour of Pawsburgh, it dawned on me that Mr. Truck—the oddball kid from the block— was more than a character. I was a survivor, a poignant comedy, in the living sitcom that is Pawsburgh. And as I picked up the new basketball in my jaws, I knew, rain or shine, Pawsburgh would bark again.

The End.