Dawnlark Plains carry me home

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!