The butcher lifted half a pig’s head to his nose, sent it flying with a disgusted hurl into the bundle of scrap that Bobtail Meg was waiting to carry home in her saddle-bags for the kennel. Meg loved to lug the butcher-scraps home for me. When her saddle-bags were filled…
The puppy room in the basement brimmed with youngness, with suckings, cuddlings, lickings, squirmings–puppies whose eyes were sealed against seeing, puppies whose ears were sealed against hearing for the first ten days of life, puppies rolling around in their mother’s box like sausages, heavy in the middle and with…
Religious people did not know more precisely which day was Sunday than did my Bobtails. On Sunday the field gate stood open. Into the garden trooped a stream of grey vitality, stirring commotion among the calm of the flowers. The garden’s Sunday quiet fastened almost immediately upon the dogs.
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