Winter turns to summer
Sadness turns to fun
Keep the faith, baby
You broke the rules and won . . .
. . . Keep it glowing, glowing, glowing
I'm not hurting anyone
Keep it glowing, smoking, glowing
I'm howlin' at the moon – the Ramones

Some time had passed on the Bebop, and much of the activity had returned to its relative normal. Spike worked through his katas with a renewed vigor, Jet brooded over his bonsai, and Faye painted her toenails. The large bounty, the big one, continued to loom just out of reach. The three had been doing some work, enough to keep them going, but not enough to really go on, as was their usual fashion.

They suddenly had had contact with Ed. She missed them all, and she was still looking for Papa-Papa, even though she would rather be with Papa-Jet, Spi-person, and Faye-faye. She was tired of looking for Papa-Papa. Then she asked about Woof-woof.

Spike was the one who had to tell her. "Woof-woof . . . he's old and tired, Ed."

"Spi-person isn't telling Ed something."

"Spi-person doesn't think that Ein will be with us much longer."

"Ein's coming back to Ed?"

"No, Ed, I mean . . . I think he's going to die soon."

There was silence at the other end of the comm. link, and then Ed asked, quietly, "Can Spi-person put the comm-comm up to Woof-woof's ear?" Spike complied, and sat next to Ein and held the comm. for him. Spike didn't listen, but he caught some snatches of speech, and Ed sounded very upset. Hearing Ed's voice sound like that tugged at Spike as well. Ein listened, and barked or panted at times when it seemed that Ed required an answer. Then he pulled himself to his feet and went looking for his water bowl. Spike caught a glimpse of Ed's face before the comm. clicked off, and she looked devastated, about as devastated as Spike had felt when Ein shut off their communication.

Jet had made the suggestion that Ein should perhaps be put down, put out of his misery. Spike vehemently refused. Ein was not in pain, just tired and old, he maintained. Jet apologized and dropped the discussion, and then went into the kitchen to make some fresh-cooked beef for Ein, but Ein didn't eat. Jet didn't press him, but he did spend some time scratching the dog's ears.

One afternoon, Spike had been sitting with Ein on the lumpy old sofa. Faye had leaned over the back on the sofa and scratched Ein's head as she told stories about an old dog that had belonged to her family when she was a very young girl. Then, quietly, she squeezed Spike's shoulder and left the room.

Spike was due for another checkup with Barleigh, and Spike put a leash on Ein and took the dog with him. Barleigh took one look at the dog and asked Spike to put him on the exam table.

Spike smiled wanly. "What is this? Are you really a vet in disguise?"

"I just want to look." Barleigh did all of the usual checks: he shone a light into Ein's ears, nose, mouth, and eyes, took a pulse, and even Ein's temperature. Ein stood quietly as Barleigh palpitated his belly, and then Ein lay down with a flop. "Just how old is this dog?"

"In dog years or human years?"

Barleigh chuckled in response, and then took another look in the dog's ear. And there, in a faded blue, was an aged tattoo: HANSO19960501 - 417. Barleigh recognized it; it was a lab tattoo, and in his experience with lab animals, he knew that the series of numbers reflected the date of the dog's registration at a laboratory and a serial number, but Barleigh couldn't believe the date code. He took another look at the tattoo, which read very clearly that this dog had been tagged on May 1, 1996. Barleigh frowned and then looked at Spike. "You have a very old dog here."

Spike blinked. "Yes, I do."

And the two men looked at each other, knowing that each knew exactly what this dog was about, where he came from, and just how old the animal was.

"Mr. Spiegel, tell me . . . just how did you come by this dog?"

Spike looked at Barleigh for a moment, trying to think of an explanation, but then decided that the truth, or a version of the truth, was the right thing to say. "He . . . fell from the sky."

Barleigh returned Spike's gaze for a while, and said, "I could give you some tranquilizers; some mild ones for his pain."

Spike shook his head. "I don't think he's in pain anymore."

"I think . . . I think you're right." Barleigh stood for a moment, stroking Ein's fur. "Goodbye, Mr. Spiegel."

"But – this is my checkup. You didn't examine me."

Barleigh, apparently finished with his warm manner towards Ein, puffed himself up and said, "We both know that you are a very stubborn man, Mr. Spiegel, prone to ignore both my advice and the advice of others in favor of your own opinion. However, I expect I will see you in the future, given your propensity for injuring yourself as you do. For now, I bid you adieu." Barleigh stumped to the door. "And . . . adieu to you, little Corgi. May you chase the uneatable with the other unspeakable across the moors."

"Oscar Wilde."

Barleigh looked back at Spike in surprise. "Yes, indeed." And with that, he left the room.

After leaving the hospital, Spike took Ein to a dog park that was near the university. He removed the leash from Ein and watched as he gamboled over the grass with several other dogs. Ein got briefly involved with a game of catch with a non-descript spotted dog that was not much bigger than Ein. Spike heard the owners, a couple in their mid-thirties, call the spotted dog Gypsy. Gypsy and Ein were having quite a time, as if they had met before. And perhaps they had, long ago.

Ein? Can you hear me? Are you having fun? Ein didn't answer; he hadn't answered before when Spike attempted to speak to him. But Ein did look at Spike, panting, with a grin on his face, looking happier than Spike ever remembered. Spike swallowed, and smiled back. I should have brought you here earlier, Ein, please forgive me. Ein slowly waddled over to Spike, who was sitting on the grass, and head-butted Spike in the chest. Spike laughed, and gave Ein a really good scratch, talking in the baby-talk that most dogs hear from their owners. Ein responded to Spike's talking with a howl, despite the moonless sky, which set off a chain reaction with the other dogs in the park. Spike laughed even harder, and returned the howls with one of his own.

But today, Ein was by himself in the common area, near the old sofa, on the floor where Ed and her Tomato used to be. As before, as always, as it probably ever shall be, Spike was working on his katas, Jet was brooding over his bonsai, and Faye was painting her toenails. Status Quo. Except for Ed. We need to go get Ed. Then the scene will be complete. Ein yawned. He was so tired. He put his nose on his paws and closed his eyes.

Hey. Kid. Wake up. Clear as a bell, the other, familiar voice from his past. Ein wasn't surprised to hear it, but it seemed that the voice was speaking to him from the same room this time.

What?

Wake up, Kid. Open your eyes.

Ein raised his head. Before him stood Blood. But not really. What are you doing here?

You know why I'm here.

Yes. . . I do. Ein turned his head in Spike's direction. He couldn't see the human from where he was.

Don't worry about them Kid, they're going to be okay. You did good, Kid.

No. I didn't. I never learned . . .

Yes, you did. You learned well. And you remembered what you needed to remember. C'mon, they're waiting.

They?

Ranger and Fang, asshole. Who else? Blood grinned and came closer, and put his forehead against Ein's. Hey, Kid. You know what? That whole thing about the uneatable being uneatable? It's a total lie. The uneatable are very good eating indeed. Let's go.

Ein grinned back. He took one last gaze around the ship. The kids are all right, he thought, and then he put his nose back down on his paws and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, then another. Then he breathed no more.

And two dogs ran across the meadow, howling at the moon.