“Wa-a-a-a! Ma-a-a-a-a!”
Even the bloodhounds got excited, and I got licked all over again. A feller can protect himself from one dog’s affections, but, when four get him down under a bed and set on his chest, he ain’t got much show.
“Gee mighty gosh, this is little Oscar!” yelps one of them fellers, dancing a jig.
“This one is Pete Patton’s Emmeline!” yelps another. “Pete, this is your Emmeline! Gee-lory!”
Everything gets sort of mulliganed again. The place is filled with so much joy that the hounds get infected, and they sure scrubbed my face plentiful again.
“Going to take Oscar right over to the wife!” whoops a voice.
“Foller me and Emmeline!” yelps the other. “Come on, boys! I know where there’s a keg of ten-year-old hooch. Come on!”
Nobody invited me and the dogs. As soon as everybody is gone, I crawls out of there. Them four man-trailers looks at me with such solemn expressions in their sad eyes that I ain’t got the heart to chide ’em.
“You pups want to go with me?” I asks, and they wags their tails.
“Come on,” says I. “I never did like to wash my own face.”