“But I won’t run away very far,” thought Don, “and I’ll soon run back again, to tell these silly farm animals that they are much better off stopping safely at home.”
That is what Don thought, but things do not always happen the way we think, or even the way dogs think.
Don walked out of his kennel, after he had had a good dinner, looked carefully about to see that no one saw him, and off down the road he trotted.
“I suppose I ought to say good-by to Bob,” thought Don, “but then he doesn’t always understand my way of talking. Besides, if I said good-by to him he’d know I was going away, and he’d stop me. So I guess I won’t wait.”
Don trotted off, past the farmhouse, down the country road. Tabby, the big yellow cat, was sunning herself on the porch as Don went past.
“Where are you going?” asked Tabby, stretching out her paws.
“Oh, just to take a walk,” answered Don. For he did not want Tabby to follow him, and, after all, he was walking away, rather than running away—at least, at first.
“I don’t want any cats chasing after me,” thought Don. “No one takes any one with him when he runs away—at least Squinty didn’t, and he ought to know all about running away, for he’s done it twice. No, I’ll go alone.”
Off Don went.
At first it was very pleasant, trotting along the road, in the shade. Now and then Don would stop to get a drink at a wayside spring. Or he might see a flock of birds, and he would chase after them, with his red tongue hanging out of his mouth. Don did not want to catch the birds, but he just wanted something to run after, and birds were as good as anything else.