“I don’t believe Little Ann is half as smart as he says she is. She’s so little those old coons think she’s a rabbit.
I bet she sneaks right up on them before they realize she’s a dog.”
“Some of these nights a big old coon is going to carry her off to his den and raise some little coon puppies.”
I always took their kidding with a smile on my face, but it made my blood boil like the water in Mama’s teakettle.
I had one way of shutting them up. “Let’s all go in the store,” I’d say, “and see who has the most hides in there.”
It was true that my dogs were small, especially Little Ann.
She could walk under an ordinary hound; in fact, she was a regular midget.
If it had not been for her long ears, no one could have told that she was a hound.
Her actions weren’t those of a hunting hound. She was constantly playing.
She would play with our chickens and young calves, with a piece of paper or a corncob.
What my little girl lacked in size, she made up in sweetness.
She could make friends with a tomcat. Old Dan was just the opposite.
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