Edmund's eyes narrowed as he took in the slobbering, gamboling golden field, "I can't help but think it is vaguely sinister; all the gamboling fun would be the perfect cover for some nefarious plot."
"Honestly, Edmund," Lucy muttered in exasperation, have you ever met a Golden Retriever capable of even forming much less holding onto malintent?"
By way of demonstration, one of their transparently guileless, and dim, subjects galumphed up, tried to speak around a gigantic stick wedged in her mouth, couldn't, dropped it at their feet, shook herself (spraying them with hair and spittle) and then looked about so confused, Lucy nudged the slobbery branch with her toe and said gently, "You dropped your stick, Sula."