From the original Darkness Comes to Kingswell short story:

The dogs stood at the screen door waiting for their chance to leap from the porch and dash out into the world. Dad reached them first and pushed the door open. Both dogs bolted out, made the sharp turn northward toward the lake, and ran excitedly to the pier.

From the developing Dreamdarkers manuscript:

The dogs stood at the screen door waiting for their chance to leap from the porch and dash out into the world. The clickety-clack of their feet dancing on the aged beams made such a wonderfully joyful sound. The prance declared life and happiness, a stark contrast to the death and darkness we all felt. It filled the veranda with excitement. Anyone hearing it would recognize the vigor and vitality of the canines, and their desire to play imbued me with energy. I could listen to them for hours, but Dad reached the door before me and pushed it open. Both dogs dove from the porch and bolted into the parking area. Their reckless abandon was contagious despite our circumstances. I felt invigorated. I wanted to run with them, swim in the lake as they paddled about, and lose myself in their innocent exuberance. We could lie in the sun and bathe our bodies in tanning rays. The absent breeze and ever-present heat would serve only to force us back into the water at regular intervals. A simple twig would become fodder for chases and fetches and much splashing. It would be a simple time overflowing with boundless fun, and we would follow it with a comfortable nap and tasty treats. But we could not revel in such humble pleasures, I feared. Lacking the ability to voice my thoughts to my parents without instigating additional worry, I pondered silently whether we would ever again enjoy such unpretentious folly.

A handful of fox squirrels lazily foraging in the shade became immediate targets for the dogs. As the rodents scrambled to the nearest trees, Mosko and Brogan gleefully romped and gave chase. They possessed no malicious intent. The truest joy was in the pursuit of moving targets. Besides, they started the game with twenty yards separating them from squirrels that stood two or three yards from the bordering woodlands. Even the “tree rats,” as Beth liked to call them, must have known they were never in real danger. The chaotic rush implied otherwise, but I knew better. They scampered up the trees to safe heights then turned to watch their pursuers. Meanwhile, having determined there was no squirrel on the evening’s menu, both dogs made the sharp turn northward toward the lake and ran excitedly to the pier.