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Legs kicking, seeking ground to stand upon, to run upon. The greatest defense… running. But it’s hard to do suspended from a rope two feet above the ground. The noose tightens in intensity with each writhing wriggle. The eyes, fading now from glistening black to opaque gray; from love and trust to desperation and incomprehension of why this was done. Comet lasted longer than Dasher. Now it’s Santa’s turn.



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