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.