Then Don felt very proud and happy, and wagged his tail so hard that it is a wonder it did not fall off. But then a dog’s tail is made quite tightly fast to him, you see, so it cannot wag off.
“No,” said Don, as he went to his kennel to dig up a nice, juicy bone he had buried near it, “no, I’ll never run away—never!”
But you just wait and see what Don did.
For several days after he had brought back Squinty, the comical pig, nothing much happened to Don. He played about with Bob, his little master, chased the chickens out of the garden, and did some of his tricks. One day Tabby, the cat, came out to talk to him.
Don and Tabby were good friends. The dog had always been kind to cats, since his mother had told him to be, and Tabby was not afraid of Don, though she would fluff up her tail, and round up her back, when she saw some dogs that were not friends of hers.
“Don’t you ever get tired of staying here all the while, Don?” asked Tabby, as she sat in the sunshine, washing her face with her velvety paw. Dogs and cats can talk to each other you know, though we cannot understand them.
“Why, no, I don’t know as I get tired,” Don answered. “What makes you ask that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” meowed Tabby. “Sometimes I feel as if I should like to run away, and see how the world looks away from this farm. I have been here all my life.”
“So have I—nearly,” Don went on. “But I like it here.”