Stella stops to sniff a patch of grass. Rocky comes bumbling over and even though he is fifty pounds lighter than she is, he clonks her on the side of her head with his head and shoves her out of the way. Stella jostles back and the two of their noses bump off each other as they take in the mysterious yet fragrant odor rising up into the clear morning air. Rocky, deciding that the spot needs anointing, raises a leg and pushes out only a few drops because that's all he's got left in reserve. Stella doesn't get out of the way fast enough and her ear gets splashed. Same as it ever was. It's as if they'd never parted.

Barclay is around somewhere, not so much interested in the scent preoccupying Stella and Rocky as he is in the squirrel he's just spotted digging around a tree. Barclay springs into his run, stretches his body out, all four feet off the ground. You can barely see him. You can barely make him out. He's fast but still the squirrel manages to disappear up into the tree, the highest branches of which seem to disappear in the clouds. Barclay barks his disappointment but it doesn't really matter because he's not really all that disappointed - the barking is just part of the game - as there's lots more squirrels and lots more time for squirrel chasing.

Stella hears Barclay's bark and looks up. She decides it's something exciting, whatever Barclay's up to, so she trots over. Rocky, not wanting to be left behind, follows. Barclay has a squirrel in his mouth. Stella tentatively, respectfully, sniffs the air around the squirrel then she looks at Barclay and stamps her front feet, ready to play. Barclay drops the squirrel which runs off and Stella gives chase and Rocky chases Stella and Barclay chases Rocky - it's all very worthwhile - and because they get hot and thirsty from all the chasing, there is a sloped path leading to a cool, shallow lake and there they drink and Barclay rolls on his back and cavorts in the cool soft grass. Stella finds and munches on some new shoots. Rocky, who is relatively new to all this, still isn't sure and sniffs around for something reassuring.

Rocky runs at the other dog, his hackles up and he barks furiously at it. The other dog leans back a bit but otherwise just sits there. Stella hurries over and starts barking at the other dog as well. Barclay watches from a few meters back. He's somewhat suspicious of Huskies but this Husky isn't doing much except sitting there. Strange, Barclay thinks. But then Huskies are that way, aren't they? They have those strange pale eyes but this one doesn't have those eyes. She just has ordinary brown ones. That's okay then.

The sun has been shining for a day, maybe a year, maybe longer but the dogs remember snow so it snows for a change and then the snow turns into rain and the rain turns into a river and the river turns into an ocean and the four dogs are running along the beach. Stella has a long bleached stick in her mouth and she's shaking it and she's whacking the rocks on the beach with it as she runs along. Rocky is running and stopping and running and stopping every time he smells the scent of something, maybe fish, maybe critters, maybe ... but then he gets whacked in the head with Stella's stick and she stops and lets him grab a free end of it and their tug of war elicits growls and grunts and groans and the stick is the most exciting thing in the world. After a while, they stop to chew on their respective ends of the stick.

Barclay sniffs a beached fish which flipflops and slaps him in the nose and then Barclay runs and chases the Husky whose name is Sheba but no one has called her that in a very long time. Pretty soon, they are running across the field and through the woods and up the hills and across a frozen lake. They are chasing shifty squirrels and fat raccoons. They are chasing slices of cheese skipping along on four legs and pizza crusts fluttering about with angels' wings.

Eventually, Stella and Rocky join them and they tree a slow possum who hisses at them as they bark and bark louder until their barking is like thunder rumbling across the plain and there is no one there to tell them to stop so eventually they stop on their own, quite satisfied with their accomplishments.

The dogs riproar around for a day, maybe a year, maybe longer and then they find their couches and they settle in.

The light couldn't be more glorious. Even as evening comes, the light fades but its glow remains. When the dogs fall asleep, they dream of life. Why else would they sleep if not to dream of life? Rocky snores the loudest. Stella quietly whistles through her nose. Barclay barks in his sleep. Sheba is the quiet one. They are each their own now, finally and fully, but they all dream of life and all they have left behind and all that await them.