Shadowwyn Moor You want fries with that?

“Sit, Fry.”

Named for his questionable mental capacity — “few French fries short of a Happy Meal, isn’t he?” — the over exuberant Golden Retriever was quite unaware that he and Big Mac had become completely, utterly lost. French Fry had never been lost. He wouldn’t have been able to fully comprehend the situation even if Big Mac had used the word outright. To French Fry, “lost” was what happened to tennis balls that rolled under the couch until one of the Family dug them out for him. Oftentimes he didn’t even realize they were gone until — oh boy, oh boy! — they winked like neon green signal beacons in Dad’s capable hands. And French Fry — and certainly Big Mac — were too large now to fit under the couch.

“Sit.”

The Golden Retriever’s ample posterior hit the ground with military precision the second time around. Soulful brown eyes immediately searched Big Mac’s face for approval. French Fry was a simple creature with simple desires, and there were few things he enjoyed more than swimming — or doing basically anything — with his brother. Tongue lolling from his open, smiling mouth, French Fry held the position for a second or two before the furious lashing of his tail set his chubby butt wiggling along with it. He inched closer to Mac — inched closer again — and butted the crown of his empty head against his brother’s fuzzy chin. The plastic cone combed through and stabbed harmlessly into the thick ruff around the Newfoundland’s neck again and again, making wild “sssssTHWUP” noises until French Fry realized that Big Mac was actually concerned about something.

French Fry’s tail stopped wagging; his brow furrowed; his expressive brown eyes filled with concern; and his joyously panting mouth closed to form a pensive pout. “Mac,” he said hesitantly when the dark chestnut eyes landed upon his face, “what’s wrong?” A low whine trailed from the retriever’s lips as he attempted to put the pieces of this puzzle together — no Family, no tennis balls, deeply concerned expression on Mac’s face, no hot dog smell —

— oh, no! No hot dog smell!

Clearly the two dogs were in a Dangerous Situation, because if French Fry had one talent it was finding food — and this place was very clearly devoid of food. The Family had brought hot dogs; therefore, if there was no hot dog smell, the Family was somewhere else. And since the intention of this jaunt was to find where the people were, this meant that they had gone the wrong way somehow. The consternation was visible on French Fry’s face as he solved this mystery.

There was only one thing to do.

French Fry flung up his head, a volley of barks trailing off into a pitiful little howl.

“HEY! HEY! WE ARE HERE! WHERE ARE YOOOOOUUUUU?”