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Alcid

“It’s an unreasonable request.”

“Yes, it is, but reason doesn’t enter into it at this point.” Alcid looks strained. “You have to fix the race.”

Proper makes jerky movements with her hands. “They’re dachshunds, Alcid! We can barely get them to point the right direction in the first place!”

“Then just… dope them or something!” Alcid says. “Like with horses!”

“Like with horses.”

“Yes!”

Proper slips a little Pepto-Bismol into their food dishes, which–as it turns out–is not the same as Alka-Seltzer like she thought. Miss Whiffles wins anyway. She thought she saw a piece of cheese.

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