Earth's Gone to the Dogs!

Ruskin didn't like archeologists; they were always digging up problems from the past. Like the day Bigelow walked in and announced—
Ruskin leaned back and yawned—the porch chair creaked comfortably. It was a comfortable day. Fifty yards away the barnyard was alive with Spring noises. Clean crisp smells floated to him through the bright morning air.
Daisy walked slowly up and watched him with big affectionate eyes. Ruskin smiled down at her. She was a pretty one, pretty soft hair, deep blue eyes, lithe rounded lines.
Nice doggie.
He patted her head gently.
Nice doggie, he repeated.
Holidays in the country came too seldom.
The quiet was wonderful.
Tom, the wrinkled little farmhand, opened the porch door.
Mr. Ruskin?
Yes, Tom.
Man here to see you.