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I figured the lion had scented my pups. The more I thought about anything harming them, the madder I got. I was ready to die for my dogs.
It was wonderful indeed how I could have heart-to-heart talks with my dogs and they always seemed to understand. Each question I asked was answered in their own doggish way.
If a man’s word isn’t any good, he’s no good himself.
It wasn’t hard for me to decide. I was firmly convinced that I had been helped.
foliage. I could see the bright eyes of the ghost coon. Everything that had happened on this terrible night was because of his very existence, but it wasn’t his fault.
They came running, tickled to death. Little Ann took one of her silly spells. She started nipping at the long red tail of Old Dan.
Opening one of the cans, I dumped it out on a piece of bark in front of Old Dan. He sniffed at it and refused to eat. I laughed, for I knew why. While I was opening the other can, Grandpa came over. “What’s the matter,” he asked. “Won’t he eat it?” “Sure, Grandpa,” I said, “he’ll eat, but not before Little Ann gets her share.” With the second can opened, I fed her on another piece of bark. Both of them started eating at the same time.
“I’m not only big enough to help Papa with the farm. Now I’m big enough to drink coffee.”
“Men,” said Mr. Kyle, “people have been trying to understand dogs ever since the beginning of time. One never knows what they’ll do. You can read every day where a dog saved the life of a drowning child, or lay down his life for his master. Some people call this loyalty. I don’t. I may be wrong, but I call it love—the deepest kind of love.”
“It’s a shame that people all over the world can’t have that kind of love in their hearts,” he said. “There would be no wars, slaughter, or murder; no greed or selfishness. It would be the kind of world that God wants us to have—a wonderful world.”
“I’m thankful that I still have her,” I said, “but how can I forget Old Dan? He gave his life for me, that’s what he did—just laid down his life for me. How can I ever forget something like that?”
“Why did they have to die? Why must I hurt so? What have I done wrong?”
“Mama,” I asked, “do you think God made a heaven for all good dogs?” “Yes,” she said, “I’m sure He did.” “Do you think He made a place for dogs to hunt? You know—just like we have here on our place—with mountains and sycamore trees, rivers and cornfields, and old rail fences? Do you think He did?” “From what I’ve read in the Good Book, Billy,” she said, “He put far more things up there than we have here. Yes, I’m sure He did.” I was thinking this over when Mama came up to me and started tucking my shirt in. “Do you feel better now?” she asked. “It still hurts, Mama,” I said, as I buried my
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only an angel could plant the seeds of a red fern, and that they never died; where one grew, that spot was sacred.
