Okay, that was worth the price of admission all by itself. How often did you get to see a two-hundred pound killer dog wriggling with hyperactive glee? He was practically bouncing, like Ginta on chocolate cake.

Ryouma couldn't have stopped now at knife-point. He considered the state of his carpet, decided not to risk it, and backed up onto the linoleum of the kitchen nook. Panting in delight, Kuromaru followed. The open bottle went on the counter; Ryouma popped the cap off the other and eyed Kuromaru. Those jaws didn't look terribly well-adapted for drinking a stream poured from midair, but they weren't exactly meant for talking, either. Nin-dogs did all sorts of things they weren't really built for.

And this one had just lost half his vision and most of his depth perception.

Ryouma faltered. Kuromaru lunged.