Shadowwyn Moor You want fries with that?

Ignorance was truly bliss, and it was for this reason that P.B. and Jelly never really crossed French Fry’s mind. Until he had reason to think of them — i.e. until he went to the dog park and they terrorized him with their high-pitched barks and sharp little fangs — he simply...forgot they existed. No, French Fry wasn’t what you’d call a deep thinker.

Mac, though, was another story.

Mac was the family’s protector — the designated driver — the last one out the door to make sure everyone else got out all right. He’d remember the cranky little terriers. [It must be confessed that Mac’s great intelligence had some serious grudge-holding potential.]

The Newfoundland rose to all fours then, his tail curling high and proud above his back, and French Fry was powerless to control the excited skittering of his hindquarters as he butted and licked at his brother’s muzzle in frenetic approval. Mac wasn’t necessarily a creature of few words; when wrestling with Fry or playing with the Family, Mac was capable of some ridiculously weird sounds. But there was something about Mac’s resonant, booming voice that commanded attention, and French Fry was no exception to this rule.

As Mac’s voice echoed and died away, French Fry felt the first cold fingers of worry twist tendrils around his great — but cowardly — heart. “Mac?” the Golden Retriever intoned softly, though he didn’t have a specific question in mind. It was enough that he and Mac were together. As long as they were together, Fry knew they’d find the Family.