I started walking one day. Going down the street. The street is broken. Shattered by war. A war between the dogs and the cats. It was a long war. It lasted twenty years. But humanity barely survived. The weapons of the pets were too much for us to stand against. And they weren't even fighting us, we just got caught in the crossfire. We were the prize, I suppose. Who was better? Cats or dogs. They couldn't agree and started to fight. We didn't think much of it at first. Just squabbles between pets. Between the tomcats and the mutts. They had more than we expected. Cruckett bombs, floog guns, sluck missiles, all of it. Just stuff we never heard of. Broke our cities. It was Charleston that first fell. Ironic that another war broke out there. Dang city always starting them. Can't anymore. Charleston is gone. Sunk into the sea, taking 40k souls with it. The cats struck first I think, but that hardly matters who started it. In the end, we lost. I'm taking a walk. I'm taking a walk because my master wills it. The dogs won. I have to walk them when they want it. My master and twenty of his mates. I gotta walk them. Pick up after them. Feed them. The air is barely breathable now, so I wear a mask. It filters out the atmosphere that is suited more to dogs than people. I walk them when they want it, which is most of the day. I have to protect my skin from the anti-cat radiation. Like everything the canines did to the world, it doesn't hurt dogs. They have no issues. I'm tired. My legs are always sore. I hardly ever get sleep. I lay down and they start to lick my face. They make me get up. Make me play. Make me feed. The war was bad, but at least back then, I could get some sleep. Hiding in the bunker and away from their constant need for companionship. I can't yell at them. I can, but they don't listen. It's like they know. They know they don't have to follow anymore. They know they are the masters. I'm stuck in this place. I know of some others who are still alive. I see them walking their masters. They walk along the broken roads with the dozens of plastic bags to pick up leavings. I used to wave to them. Sometimes they waved back, but mostly not. Now they never do and I no longer wave. The same glassy eyed stare on all their faces. Stopping at each broken hydrant. Each burned tree. Each tire on the rusted hulks of vehicles we once owned. We own nothing anymore. Just a life of walks. A life of throwing balls. A life of picking poo. Someday I'll die. But for now, I will follow my master. I will suffer his nose in my crotch. I will continue.
