Loo reached me first, her motherliness, always on the alert to comfort anything, pup or human, that needed protection. I had watched someone die that night. It was the month of February and a bitter freeze-up–ground white and hard, trees brittle. The sick woman had finished with seeing, hearing and knowing; she had breathed laboriously. In the middle of the night she had died, stopped living as a blown-out candle stops flaming. With professional…
Punk in his prime was siring magnificent puppies, but I had to think forward. Punk and Loo, the founders of my kennel, would one day have to be replaced by young stock. Bobbies are a long-lived breed. Kennel sires and matrons, however, must not be over old if the aim of the kennel is to produce vigorous working stock. It was time I thought about rearing a young pair to carry on. I had…
Her skin was like rag ill-washed and rough-dried. Both skin and clothing of the woman were the texture of hydrangea blossoms-thin, sapless. On exaggeratedly high heels her papery structure tottered. “I want a dog.” “Work dog or companion?” “One-o-them whatcher-callum–the kind you got.” “Bobtail Sheep-dogs.” “I ain’t got no sheep, jest a husband. Lots younger’n me. I tried to keep my years down to his–can’t be done,”–she shrugged. The shrug nearly sent her thin…