His eyelid drifts slowly closed again. Already halfway to unconciousness and sweet dreams, his paws twitch gently against Kate and the bed. In his mind they chase the bird all through the steam-sweet jungles of home and even though they never catch it that doesn't matter, because when they collapse laughing to the ground it's Kate's hand that's soft on his fur, and Kate who tells him what a good boy he is.

Dogs don't smile.

That doesn't stop Dug.

"You are a good master," he says drowsily. And sleeps.