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Harold is a dog.

Dogs are not well known for their ... cleanliness. Or their pleasing aroma. He's heard enough stories of how foul dog hair is, what a terrible experience it is to get a taste of it.

But he still wants to lick it. That short, velvety patch on Harold's forehead. It's awfully tempting. Surely, one little lick couldn't hurt...

And really, it doesn't feel that different from his own fur, or taste that different – maybe a slightly different tang of oil to it, but really, it's just hair.

"What," Harold rumbled, without opening his eyes, "are you doing, Chester?"

"Nothing," he said, and "Shut up."