The shot went in, and the thing that made him Mordred simply drained out, leaving a giant, wasted husk of a dog on the floor, and I watched Morgane sniff it, trying to understand where her friend had gone.
One lazy summer Sunday, with our dogs flanked around us on the couch, Douglas asked me to be his wife, and that very autumn, I walked down the aisle toward him with Mordred at my side, and my best friend holding Morgane in the front row.