You were a dog breeder, living on a large plot of land in Wyoming, who had taken over a long line of Border Collies from your grandfather. The newest litter of puppies were just old enough to start going to their new homes, and you just had one final puppy, the runt of the litter.

Your neighbor kept to himself, but he had commented on your dogs before. In a moment of neighborly kindness you knocked on his door, the runt puppy in your hand, a bow around his neck.