I waited and waited for him to strike a trail. Nothing happened.
After about two hours, I called to him. He didn’t come. I called and called.
Disgusted, I gave up and went home. Coming up through the barn lot, I saw him rolled up in a ball on the ground in front of the corncrib.
I immediately understood. I walked over and opened the door.
He jumped up in the crib, smelled Little Ann’s foot, twisted around in the shucks, and lay down by her side.
As he looked at me, I read this message in his friendly gray eyes, “You could’ve done this a long time ago.”
I never did know if Little Ann would hunt by herself or not.
I am sure she would have, for she was a smart and understanding dog, but I never tried to find out.
Little Ann was my sisters’ pet. They rubbed and scratched and petted her.
They would take her down to the creek and give her baths. She loved it all.
If Mama wanted a chicken caught, she would call Little Ann.
She would run the chicken down and hold it with her paws until Mama came.
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