Shadowwyn Moor You want fries with that?

Yes, please ♥ I am actually feeling a bit better today! My throat seems to have stopped being quite so raw, and I am able to eat melted ice cream, which is a step up from my previous sad meals of...chicken broth. This will make ten posts!

Someday when he was old and grizzled, with white spectacles and a dusting of powdered sugar white around his muzzle, French Fry would look back on these antics and wonder where he got all that goddamn energy. And he would lift a threadbare ear as his buddy Mac mentioned their “wild days” — and, after some patient reminding — would remember only the good things about their time as wild animals during their long sojourn to find the Family. That is, if all went well.

French Fry was not a deep thinker; he might never be a hero. What he was was optimism and loyalty personified. And he knew that they would eventually find their way home; his trust in Big Mac [and in the way the world worked in general] was based upon the knowledge that every day the fear of being left alone would be assuaged by the beloved herd of the Family coming home again. It didn’t matter that this time the dogs were the ones who had wandered astray. They would be found. If French Fry had any inkling of science, he would have likened it to a scientific law.

Securely snuggled in this simple belief system, French Fry bulleted after his brother. It was a certainty that French Fry could catch the Newfoundland, but whether or not he distracted himself on the way would determine the actual outcome of this little game. “I’M GOING TO GET YOU-OUU-OUUUUU!” he howled, hearing again a voice that did not exist in this place and time.

“Fry, shut up, you goofy dog!”