French Fry was never too far from his inky-furred friend.  Normally, his excess energy dictated that he run circles around the ponderous Newfoundland just to keep pace without wearing Mac out, but hunger — this kind of hunger, new and foreign and seemingly without end — had slowed the Golden Retriever down.  His empty head hung between his forelegs as he bumbled along, the plastic cone dragging limply.  Normally the cone didn’t provide much of a hindrance; French Fry was a russet-furred freight train and generally jovial.  Now, though, he wanted it off.
 
The sound of Mac’s voice, sonorous and courteous as always, paired now with an unfamiliar and decidedly female timbre, brought a spring to French Fry’s step.  Looking a little worse for the wear, with his battered satellite dish encircling his slightly more slender neck, French Fry stopped in his tracks as he regarded this new stranger.  Not the pallid marshmallow fluff of Ondine, nor the chocolate and chestnut agouti of Spring, this female was decidedly Mac-colored with adornments of white accentuating her ample curves.  She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful creature French Fry had ever seen.
 
With a cheerful whuff French Fry ambled over to his beloved big brother, a note of worry at Mac’s weariness causing Fry’s brow to furrow momentarily before he butted his head [i.e. butted his cone] — sssssTHWUP!  sssssTHWUP! — against the Newfoundland’s shoulder and neck.  Then, a little shyly, he dropped into a sphinx-like position to show instinctive respect to the love of his life the raven-furred female.  “Hello,” he mumbled bashfully.  “You’re bea — I lo — er — h’lo.”
 
Please marry me!

French Fry’s head bobbed automatically at the sound of his name, though he found any words of confirmation had lodged in his throat as a beautiful smile shaped Rana’s lovely muzzle.  His tongue lolled from his muzzle as he began to pant — does anybody else think it’s hot in here? no? just me? — and he found himself unmotivated to do anything but simply stare at the female, his soulful brown eyes filled with wonder and affection.  Not looking her in the eyes, of course — that was so uncomfortable to endure! — he fixed his gaze on some safe middle ground between her throat and her forelegs.  He didn’t know her name, but he was already wondering how he would explain to the Family that she needed to come home with them.

The conversation passed harmlessly around him.

“It’s gotta go.  Can you help me?”

“Hello...what did you say?  I was distracted by that...what’s around the other one’s head?”

Just then, Rana’s attention focused on Fry as she nodded cordially.

WAS THIS LOVE?  IT SURE FELT LIKE LOVE.

French Fry’s tail quivered and wiggled like a live wire.  He had no real understanding of what the operation was for; Mac understood it better, but Fry was just a little slow on the uptake.  “I had an operation,” he piped up bashfully.  He remembered when the e-collar had been a point of pride — a force field.  It was something he’d brandished repeatedly at poor Big Mac.  “Try to bite me in the face, Mac!” he had repeatedly urged the poor Newfoundland.  “Try to chew on my ear, Mac!”  And when the more stoic of the brothers had obliged his eager minion with a soft sigh and a harmless NOMF, French Fry had gone bananas with his victory.  It was a comedic vignette that had inevitably made its way to the Facebook pages of all the Family’s friends by now.

“It was only supposed to be for a little while,” French Fry explained with a low whine of dismay, his pitiful eyes looking as though his face should be backed by a Sarah McLaughlin song.  “But this sure feels like a longer while.”

“So he’ll quit peeing on the bushes.”
 
A low groan rumbled from French Fry’s lips, dropped down to a feeble whine, and wheedled plaintively up the musical scale — the canine equivalent of, “Maaaaac, stahhhhhp!”  Why was the inky-furred Newfie being such a brother?  Theatrically the yearling canted his head and averted his eyes, mumbling, “I’m mortle-fied,” casting a surreptitious glance at Big Mac and Rana to see if they’d noticed his SAT word of the day.  “I was protecting the bushes.”
 
French Fry wasn’t one to sulk, however, and the moment Big Mac grabbed the rim of the Elizabethan collar firmly between his teeth, the Golden Retriever bounced obligingly to his feet.  Automatically he began to follow Mac, but he froze immediately when Rana approached with a measure of caution and grabbed the cone’s other side.  She let go briskly, but French Fry didn’t pick up on any signs of fear — he figured she was just adjusting her grip.
 
The plastic contraption itself was littered with little tooth marks — French Fry was no stranger to being dragged around — but with his brother on one side and the most beautiful wolf he’d ever seen on the other, the Golden Retriever felt literally torn.  His tail wagged appealingly as he glanced from one inky face to the other, his body hunched into a rather hunchbacked posture as he wavered between a playful bow and a submissive crouch.  I don’t understand this game, bespoke his awkward body language, but, oh!  I do want to play, ever so much!