When you were about a block from the house, the dog pricked up his ears and trotted ahead, to wait for you at the gate. While you ate your supper he slept on the back porch; and after his own supper he slinked straight into the barn, to bed.
And soon, he in his nest up-stairs in the barn, you in your nest up-stairs in the house, alike you were slumbering; for neither could possibly sleep sounder than the other.
Years sped by, and the dog remained an integral part of the household. Such a quaint, quizzical, knowing old chap, with an importance ridiculous yet not unwarranted, with an individuality all his own, thoroughly doggish, but well-nigh human. He was affectionate toward the rest of the family, but you he adored. He might occasionally bluffly growl at others, but never at you. You could make him do anything, anything. To him you were perfect, omnipotent, and with you at hand he was happy.
You emerged from the grammar school into the high school. Then arrived that summer when you went to visit your aunt and uncle, and stayed three weeks. You remember the visit, don’t you?
And when you disembarked at the station on your return, and your mother was there to meet you, even while kissing her you looked for the dog.
“Where’s Don?” you asked.
“Why, John,” reproved your mother, as so often she had jokingly done before, “do you think more of seeing your dog than of seeing me?”
This silenced you.
But when you had entered the yard, and next the house, ungreeted by the familiar rush and volley of barks, you were impelled to inquire again: