It gets worse and worse, until finally it becomes almost unbearable.
If my dog-wanting had been that of an ordinary boy, I’m sure my mother and father would have gotten me a puppy, but my wants were different.
I didn’t want just one dog. I wanted two, and not just any kind of a dog.
They had to be a special kind and a special breed. I had to have some dogs.
I went to my father and had a talk with him. He scratched his head and thought it over.
“Well, Billy,” he said, “I heard that Old Man Hatfield’s collie is going to have pups. I’m sure I can get one of them for you.”
He may as well have poured cold water on me. “Papa,” I said, “I don’t want an old collie dog. I want hounds—coon hounds—and I want two of them.”
I could tell by the look on his face that he wanted to help me, but couldn’t.
He said, “Billy, those kind of dogs cost money, and that’s something we don’t have right now.
Maybe some day when we can afford it, you can have them, but not right now.”
I didn’t give up. After my talk with Papa, I went to Mama. I fared no better there.
Right off she said I was too young to be hunting with hounds.
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