The masked heeler is laying on the floor behind me. Her head dejectedly down on the carpet.

A moment ago, she was pressing hard against my thigh, looking as pathetic as she possibly could, brown eyes pleading up to mine.

She wants me to fix it. To undo this horrible attrocity that I have just committed to her, her sister and their Mom.

I won't.

We go through this every year.

The new year's dog tags.

And now they no longer sound like themselves. Although the tags are made of the same light aluminum, this year's are shaped like a bell. Last year they were stars.

And so they sound different.

I guess if I heard the exact same jingle every step of my life for a year, I'd get attached to it, too.

Now it is different. They can no longer recognize each other just by sound and, more traumatically, they can no longer recognize themselves.

They'll get over it.

Always do. Every year.