The year was 3 PCD (Post Corgi Destruction).
The beast surveyed the wasteland before him. The carnage was impressive; dramatic, total, frighting. The remains of the pack of boxes unlucky enough to cross his path were strewn about as far as one could see.
He lay Sphinx like, draped across the lifeless form of the largest box, their leader, his domination absolute.
This is the way all Sundays should be.