Every reature accepting domesticity is entitled to a name. It enraged me to find, perhaps a year later, that a pup I had sold was adult and unnamed, or was just called “Pup,” “Tyke,” or some general name. Were humans so blind that a creature’s peculiarities suggested no name special to him?–nothing but a class tag? In selling a young pup, the naming was always left to the buyer. If I raised or…

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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 Meg rose, shook butcher-floor sawdust from her coat and waddled the bones away with pompous pride. Meg never was so happy as when she was…

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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 four legs foolishly sticking out sideways, rowing aimlessly and quite unable to support the weight of their bodies. Some Bobtails are born entirely tailless, some…

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