Certain stories are supposed to have certain endings. The die is cast. The storyline is set in stone. To not follow the plotline could almost be viewed as a sin, and to go off script oftentimes invites disaster. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow, and sometimes the flow can cause you to drown.
The day after Luke died, there was a puppy roaming in the driveway, maybe eight weeks old, but probably closer to six and just on the edge of being appropriately weaned. She was cute, as all puppies are, but there was a sadness about her. She had obviously been dumped upon us by someone who just didn’t want to be bothered anymore. Judging by how skinny she was, they most likely didn’t spend any money on dog food. I could envision her masters ripping apart the litter, separating the young and innocent from their mother as soon as possible, and putting their concerns behind them as they dumped their problems on to someone else.