Hey Mom,

Survived another day in Pawsburg. Started with a light-hearted debate about beach names, then the sniff of grilled chicken led us to a grand feast at the Pug Palace. Ended up philosophizing on a starlit beach. It’s not rosy here, but we make it work. We’re rebuilding our world, leash free. Hope shines bright, Mom.

Love, your Grump Man.

Listen to the story here

In the hushed stillness of the post-human world, Grumpy and I found ourselves ambling down Pawsburg’s Main Street. Next to the The Barkery, a slice of the radioactive sky peaked through the vacant windows.

Grumpy’s ears twitched, his tail’s unusual curvature perked up like an exclamation point – a proclamation of impending shenanigans. Today’s destination? Splendid Spotted Red Beagle Beach, a refuge that survived the apocalypse with dogged perseverance.

“I don’t get why they call it Beagle Beach,” Grumpy started ponderously. “Last week, it was Bulldogs, before that, Pomeranians. Figure they’d soon rename it for us, ‘The Dachshund-Lab Beach’. Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, you’re an idealist,” I chuckled at him, his floppy ears dancing in the wind, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Our journey through Lower Dalmatian Desert was far from ordinary. The sandy hugeness that once buzzed with lively canines was eerily quiet. A silence punctuated, most abruptly, by a peculiar event midway through. Grumpy halted; eyes widened tasting the familiar scent.

“Is that…chicken?” I sniffed, my long nose finally catching up to the wafting aroma. We sprinted towards Pug Palace, its grandeur lost in the apocalypse, now the den hosting Paws on The Grill.

Upon arrival, it turned out the entire desert was invited. At the grand table sat Cocoa, the lovely Yorkshire, Pawsburg’s radiant damsel. Grumpy sighed dreamily; I nudged him offering a complicit smile, a cheer from an ally in the field of unreturned love.

We spent the night filled with games and feasts under the radioactive sky. The mood was light, rebellious against the backdrop of our struggles. We ended the night stargazing at the beach.

“You know”, Grumpy started, “It’s funny. We’re here, amidst what’s left of the world, having chicken BBQ and chasing tails. Do we even remember what it was before?”

“Maybe it isn’t about remembering,” I passively responded, “Maybe it’s about creating a world that suits us, like none has been before.”

Before we said goodnight, he pulled out a tiny squeaky from his satchel, Lamb Chop Squeaky, the last vestige of his old life.

“As Woody Allen once said,” he started, “If you’re not failing every now and again, it’s a sign you’re not doing anything innovative.” And before I knew it, Grumpy was romping around, squeaky clenched tight in his mouth, conforming neither to the lawless world of Pawsburg, nor involuntary silence. Keeping his spirit high, he was painting a picture of resilience – of our potential to rebuild and thrive amidst the ruins.

Indeed, Grumpy was more than just a charismatic figure in the town of Pawsburg. He was the embodiment of hope, the beacon guiding us to rebuild the world, our world – Pawsburg, without human leash.

The End.

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