The Story My Doggie Told to Me

by Ralph Henry Barbour

I think he pitied me a little. “I’m sorry I had to do it,” he said. “If I hadn’t he’d have beaten me, you know.”

“You could have run away for awhile,” I whimpered.

“I’ve tried that. It doesn’t do. He doesn’t forget. When I come back I get the beating just the same. Cheer up, Fritz. Maybe you’ll have luck and find a nicer home than the one you had.”

“It couldn’t be nicer,” I said, “and even if it was I wouldn’t like it. I want to go home!”

“Where is this home of yours?” he asked.

So I told him, and told him all about William and the Master and the Mistress and the Baby and my parents and Freya and everything. It made me cry some more, but I liked to talk about the folks I had lost and Jim listened very politely and seemed interested.

“That must be fine,” he sighed. “You say they fed you twice a day, regular?”

“Yes.”

“Think of that!” he said. “You aren’t making it up, are you?”