Dawnlark Plains carry me home

iamsonauseous x__x

 

“So he’ll quit peeing on the bushes.”
 
A low groan rumbled from French Fry’s lips, dropped down to a feeble whine, and wheedled plaintively up the musical scale — the canine equivalent of, “Maaaaac, stahhhhhp!”  Why was the inky-furred Newfie being such a brother?  Theatrically the yearling canted his head and averted his eyes, mumbling, “I’m mortle-fied,” casting a surreptitious glance at Big Mac and Rana to see if they’d noticed his SAT word of the day.  “I was protecting the bushes.”
 
French Fry wasn’t one to sulk, however, and the moment Big Mac grabbed the rim of the Elizabethan collar firmly between his teeth, the Golden Retriever bounced obligingly to his feet.  Automatically he began to follow Mac, but he froze immediately when Rana approached with a measure of caution and grabbed the cone’s other side.  She let go briskly, but French Fry didn’t pick up on any signs of fear — he figured she was just adjusting her grip.
 
The plastic contraption itself was littered with little tooth marks — French Fry was no stranger to being dragged around — but with his brother on one side and the most beautiful wolf he’d ever seen on the other, the Golden Retriever felt literally torn.  His tail wagged appealingly as he glanced from one inky face to the other, his body hunched into a rather hunchbacked posture as he wavered between a playful bow and a submissive crouch.  I don’t understand this game, bespoke his awkward body language, but, oh!  I do want to play, ever so much!