Shadowwyn Moor You want fries with that?

“He’s giving you the Look.”

The familiar phrase rang like a bell in French Fry’s head, so poignantly vivid it caused his ears to perk up as though he could truly hear the two-legged matriarch’s voice. As the inky Newfoundland mulled over the idea and formulated his reply, Fry’s soulful brown eyes were glued to Mac’s ever-solemn visage with desperate urgency. Wide and eager, they didn’t blink. Not even a passing steamroller could break the Golden Retriever’s intense stare; Fry was theorized to be at least 50% rubber and would probably bounce harmlessly back into place without ever looking away.

This was the Look, and it was highly effective when it came to getting French Fry what he wanted, whether it was a stupendously satisfying butt-scratch or a cookie [whose calories he ought to do without]. And what he wanted right now was —

“Wild? We’re going to be freakin’ animals!”

With a saucy smirk — a non-verbal, “Step back, Mac, and let me show you how it’s done,” — French Fry set about rattling the few precious brain cells he still had around his empty skull. Flinging up his head with a joyous cacophony of barks, the chubby Golden Retriever bounced and danced with renewed vigor, his eyes glinting wickedly this way and that before he started Transgression Number One. Arching back on his hind legs like a blooded horse, he dug both forelegs haphazardly into the soft earth beneath his feet. Dirt flew everywhere as he alternated between paddling and jumping, snapping harmlessly at the earth he uncovered.

“FRENCH FRY! STOP DIGGING IN THE YARD!”

“YOU CAN’T STOP ME NOW! I’M A WILD ANIMAL!”