When Kahne turned eight, his parents gave him a cute, adorable puppy.  It was a scrappy little thing, the runt of Mrs. Calloway's litter, but it was his and his alone.  Carla, at a world-weary ten, laughed at him.

"He's gonna die," she taunted, sitting on the stairs, legs crossed demurely at the ankle.  "You're gonna kill him."  Kahne had run crying to his room, red faced and screaming that she was wrong, wrong!

When the winter rains stopped, Kahne and Spot walked to the park every day.  It was four blocks and one bridge away, a sad, brown patch of land, but the most green Kahne had ever seen.  Over the summer, he taught Spot how to sit, stay, fetch, speak, roll over, but not play dead.  He never wanted Spot to be dead.

For six years, Spot was his friend.  His only friend, truth be told; it's not that he was a bad kid, just, different.  Kahne was oblivious to all this, never knowing that Carla always stood two steps behind him, glaring at all who would snicker and tease.  All he heard was Carla's harsh teasing, all he saw was Spot's unwavering loyalty.

Of course, when all was said and done, Spot wasn't very loyal at all.  Spot ran away, leaving Kahne all alone in his home, with only corpses for company.