I’m eating an ice cream cone, taking a walk with Bitefighter (my 10 lb. terrier), and enjoying the view at my local park. Suddenly, someone slaps the ice cream out of my hand, kicks Bitefighter in the ribs, and a pair of fingers poke me in the eyes. A chorus of voices screams, “No enjoyment!” I recognize the cloying tones of all my Exes in that chorus, and before I can respond, they follow up with, “Castrate him! Save the only undeniably luscious and gorgeous piece of this mongoloid fool to marvel at later!” Panicked out of my mind, I open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. Bitefighter—currently running through their ranks, nipping at their ankles and living up to his name—stops in their midst, his tiny, fur-lined eyes widening at the edges. Uh-oh. I’ve only seen The Spin Move once before, when the little fella was besieged by a pack of chihuahua mages (story for another day). He cocks his head up at a 45 degree angle, makes a noise that sounds like “Yarf!” and then begins spinning in place and vomiting, spewing unerring jets of chunky brown straight into my Exes’ faces. Heartwarming shrieks fill the air as my assailants run off crying and gibbering.