Grandpa said, “While we’re cooking supper, you see to your dogs. Feed them and fix them a warm bed.”
“I figure to cook them some corn-meal mush,” I said. “That’s what they’re used to eating.”
“Mush!” Grandpa growled. “They’re not going to have mush, not if I can help it.”
He walked over to a grocery box, mumbling as he did, “Mush! A hound can’t hunt on a bellyful of that stuff.”
He came back and handed me two large cans of corned-beef hash, saying, “Here. Reckon they’ll eat this.”
I wanted to hug my old grandpa’s neck. “Sure, Grandpa,” I said, “they’ll love that.”
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.
With an astonished look on his face, Grandpa exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be darned. I never saw anything like that.
Why, I never saw a hound that wouldn’t eat. Did you train them to do that?”
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