Butch

It was Butch. Rock had no doubt. Butch had been dognapped from the Walsh Estate on 35th Street twenty-five years earlier, but here he was, a gray, thirty-one-year-old Boxer plopped on a couch next to Rock's brother Jim.

There were a half-dozen new-age flower children gathered in the old living room Rock had shared with Tall Bob and Tina all those years ago, and they watched as Rock sat on the couch and Butch curled against his ribcage, placed his front paws on his shoulders, and licked his face.
Rock was overjoyed.

"Butch," Rock said. "Where the fuck have you been?"