White Dog careens to a sliding stop next to me. We sit awhile in early morning quiet, lost in contemplation. Wind ruffles her hair making her look like she's still moving.
"Cotton Blowing in the Wind," White Dog chuckles. "That's the way I always want to be remembered." With that, she leaps from her spot to pounce after humming birds.
She never even hears my witty retort, "Cotton, the fabric of our lives!"
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