"You look like you've got some doggie eczema creeping down your forehead, Falcor. Let's get you to the vet."

You hop onto Falcor's back and point in the direction of the nearest veterinarian's office. Falcor doesn't move. You gently kick his sides a little, but he still doesn't move. You ask him what's up:

"Don't you know? I can't move unless you use say the magic word!"

You try a "please", but Falcor just shakes his head "no". Oh, that's right, you think to yourself. You pump your fist in the air and shout, "yeeeeeaaaah!" Falcor takes off in a flash.

After a short flight, you gently descend in front of the vet's office. You climb off shivering, and chastise Falcor for flying into the lower atmosphere. Maybe the vet can treat that, too.

You haven't called for an appointment, but the sight of a gigantic dog dragon causes a spot to open up rather quickly. The receptionist ushers the two of you into one of the exam rooms where a veterinarian is waiting.

The vet asks what the problem is, and you tell him that your "English Flying Terrier" is sick. He nods and goes in for a closer examination:

"So, your owner says you're sick, huh?"

"I like children."

"Oh, that won't do at all. Looks like we'll have to put him down."

Well, that's good, too. This giant dog was giving you the creeps anyway. Maybe you can summon a better monster once you duck out on the bill. As the vet rolls in a drum full of pentobarbital, he tells you to find something for your "dog" to bite down on.

Falcor, it seems, is way ahead of you. He opens his massive jaws and clamps down on your torso. The vet jams a needle the size of a firehose into Falcor's backside and starts pumping. Falcor's eyes start to slowly close, but his jaws stay firmly shut on you. In fact, you think they might be getting tighter. In fact, any doubt you had vanishes when you feel both of your lungs rupture and collapse. As you black out, the vet opens a window and screams, "DEAD GUY IN MY OFFIIIIIIIICE!"

HOW ABOUT THAT? AN END TO YOUR STORY! START OVER!!!