Shadowwyn Moor You want fries with that?

Too few things went together like burgers and french fries - well at the dog park there were those obnoxious terrier mixes that went by the names PB and Jelly but seriously they were bitches - and the bond between the two dogs was as true as their monikers. Mac lifted his head so that the shifty Retriever could nestled against him and he parted lips to dab the golden noggin with a reassuring lick; the scritching of the cone against his neck was an added bonus to the brotherly embrace.

But Fry soon caught on that things were not all PB and Jelly-

WHY WERE THEY POPPING UP IN HIS HEAD RIGHT NOW?!

- and the logical conclusion of Point A to Point B shed light on the situation without the Newfie's input.

Fry wasn't calm. He was the opposite of calm. He was...uncalm. But in this world where hot dogs didn't exist and people didn't pop out of magical yellow cones [tents] to utter the godly command 'hush' Mac supposed that it was okay to be a little uncalm. The fever of Fry's reaction stirred in him a bit of unrest and he rose to all fours; his plume rose high and curled like a scorpion's tail over his back.

Watch this his eyes sparkled knowingly as he turned his face toward the moor and suckled a great breathe of air. It churned inside him, building in his breast, until at last the might of the Newfoundland heritage spilled into the vacant land with a single, booming bark that cracked against the trees and feathered into soft echoes beyond the distance.

Help. We're here.