Hey Mom, Pawsburg survived the barkshekalypse! Streets full of chew toys and a rawhide river. Beagle Beach needs a vac – but don’t tell that to a vacuum. Found fry heaven at Furrific Fried Chicken, wrapped up at Dog-gone Good BBQ. Lesson learned? Life’s still good even if the world turns into one big chew toy! Woofs and Licks, Millie 🐾🐾

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Endless piles of foamy frisbees and makeshift dog bones cluttered the streets of Pawsburg. The remnants of a barkshekalypse that had interrupted a galactic game of fetch, sending a rain of slobbery chew toys plummeting to earth. You see, Pawsburg wasn’t just any dog town, it was a haven, an escapade, a licorice-scented Disneyland where every dog could be a puppy again.

I met Millie near the Woo and Whisker Wellness Center, her tri merle coat shimmering in a dappled patina of black, grey, white, and fawn specks. She was a sight to behold, a poster-dog for peace amid chaos, her mismatched eyes twinkling with humor and jolly mischief. Clearly, the apocalypse had not quashed her spirit. In fact, if I might hazard a guess, it had only served to fan those vivacious flames.

“Look like the river ran rawhide,” she drawled poetically, settling eagerly before the remnants of what was once the Golden Retriever River. The once vibrant waterway thick with colorful fetch toys, as a glimmer of that signature azure eye sparkled with hidden mirth.

We ventured to Beagle Beach next, buried in a sandy shroud of deflated beach balls and miniature rubber chickens. “Seems like the beach could use a good vacuum,” she seductively suggested, twirling her paw in the rubble. Burn, vacuum, burn — I could hear her internal chant, yet there was a flicker of panic rising in her brown eye. Maybe apocalypse had its benefits.

As we went deeper into the remains of Pawsburg, we discovered a surprise — Furrific Fried Chicken. Conjuring a rare expression of pure delight on Millie’s face, she nosedived into the pile of leftover food like it’s an Olympic sport. Steaming, grilled, and baked — the more, the merrier.

After an exhaustive tour and an indulgent feast, we ended the day at what was left of Dog-gone Good BBQ, I insisted, “after such a consuming tour, it’s fitting to reflect on the place we rebuilt together.” Millie agreed with a hearty laugh, her bellied content and her spirit cheerful. The barkshekalypse had changed nothing for her. She was still top-dog, still Millie, the still-old-soul-in-a-young-dog’s-body.

“Life’s hard,” she reflected wistfully, caught between devouring a bone and catching sight of the Spotted Red Beagle Beach. “One day you’re playing with ol’ Sid Sloth in the yard, the next you’re cloaked in a coat of squeaky toys with no one to toss your ball. But that’s the beauty of Pawsburg, we live, we survive, we fetch… and we always come back.”

And that, my friend, is how Millie taught me one of the canine’s greatest secrets: joy. Even in the midst of an apocalypse, life was good as long as chicken could be cooked and vacuums stayed dead. Sometimes our worlds must unwind to be wound back together again. Though perhaps with fewer squeaky toys next time.

The End.