“It's a good dog that sticks up for its bone,” Billy championed. “I wouldn't care to own one that didn't.”
“But it's my Possum,” Saxon protested. “And he loves me. Besides, he must love me more than an old bone. And he must mind me.—Here, you, Possum, give me that bone! Give me that bone, sir!”
Her hand went out gingerly, and the growl rose in volume and key till it culminated in a snap.
“I tell you it's instinct,” Billy repeated. “He does love you, but he just can't help doin' it.”
“He's got a right to defend his bones from strangers but not from his mother,” Saxon argued. “I shall make him give up that bone to me.”
“Fox terriers is awful highstrung, Saxon. You'll likely get him hysterical.”
But she was obstinately set in her purpose. She picked up a short stick of firewood.
“Now, sir, give me that bone.”
She threatened with the stick, and the dog's growling became ferocious. Again he snapped, then crouched back over his bone. Saxon raised the stick as if to strike him, and he suddenly abandoned the bone, rolled over on his back at her feet, four legs in the air, his ears lying meekly back, his eyes swimming and eloquent with submission and appeal.
“My God!” Billy breathed in solemn awe. “Look at it!—presenting his solar plexus to you, his vitals an' his life, all defense down, as much as sayin': 'Here I am. Stamp on me. Kick the life outa me.' I love you, I am your slave, but I just can't help defendin' my bone. My instinct's stronger'n me. Kill me, but I can't help it.”