You reach under her wing and gently scratch her belly, “Dash, you need to wake up now,” you whisper. She mumbles a bit before scooting farther into you and nudging your jaw with the top of her muzzle. That almost gave you a heart attack. You weigh the possibility of dying via cardiovascular arrest before doing it again. This time you pat her stomach lightly, “Dash, get up.” She doesn’t move. She must be really tired for some reason, “Dash.” 