Dogs easing a wizened Amy Winehouse into a wicker wheelchair and gently steering the great-great-great-grandmother to take the sea air along the shores of Morecambe Bay.
Dogs descending from a flying motorcycle and gently placing an infant Amy Winehouse on the steps of 4 Privet Drive.
Dogs tapping a foot and singing, “They tried to make me go to rehab,” as the universe collectively demands, “FREEZE,” and a troop of science heroes emerges from an inter-dimensional portal to manually add AND I DIDAND I AM NOWWELL to the lyrics hanging suspended in the air.
Dogs gushing, “Isn’t it ADORABLE??” and holding high a copy of the Sun featuring on its cover a photograph of Amy Winehouse performing an act of shocking perversion upon the enthused person of Prince Harry, as a milling crowd coos, “Awwww…”
Dogs surveilling Amy Winehouse through a spacetime transmitter as she punts down the River Cam into a pristine Autumn sunset, and shedding a single tear as Being supplies “What A Wonderful World” as a spontaneous soundtrack.
Dogs basking in resplendent petrification as Amy Winehouse’s sublimely persuasive argument before the Oxford Union in favor of the proposition This House Believes That Every Work of Art Is a Work of Perfect Necessity shatters the illusion of material existence.
Dogs leafing through Amy Winehouse’s diary and reading aloud, astonished, to an empty room, “Rude thoughts about Prince William: 22…?!”
Dogs placing Amy Winehouse’s beehive weave atop the hapless head of Boris Johnson, and sending him teetering off on his bicycle to fight crime.
Dogs recalling somberly before a reflecting pool, “It was the morning of the twenty-third of July, and over the vale of Anduin the Sun was rising above the eastern shadow, and the southwest wind was blowing. She lay dying on the Pelennor Fields.”
Dogs sobbing quietly as Amy Winehouse whispers, “Back to black,” and spirals desperately out into the void, out of existence, and across the universe.