When they came to do the news story, Charlie was in disbelief. War hero? WAR HERO? Why had he never said? Landscapers had found the buried medal out in the yard near the rose bush; that was what had started all of the fuss. Now, as the Distinguished Flying Cross was presented to its owner once again, his friend stood straight and tall, a paw raised in salute. “I thought you were deranged,” Charlie whispered as a proud tear rolled down his face, “but you really got the Red Baron, didn’t you, Snoop?”
“It would be nice sometimes, I think,” Tigger said, trying to make a serious face,” to not be on my own so much of the time, springing about – to be part of a twosome, not a whosome!” He bobbed around on his tail, trying not to spill his cider. “That sounds reasonable enough, of course,” replied Hobbes, taking a sip, “but then you find out that your twosome is gruesome and the other whosome is seriously warped!” They each sighed, clinked glasses, and smiled.