Taking off my coat, I waded in. My yelling and scolding didn’t have much effect, but the swinging coat did.
The dogs scattered and left. Down on my knees, I peered back under the hedge. The hound was still mad.
He growled at me and showed his teeth. I knew it wasn’t his nature to fight a man.
In a soft voice, I started talking to him. “Come on, boy,” I said. “It’s all right. I’m your friend. Come on now.”
The fighting fire slowly left his eyes. He bowed his head and his long, red tail started thumping the ground.
I kept coaxing. On his stomach, an inch at a time, he came to me and laid his head in my hand.
I almost cried at what I saw. His coat was dirty and mud-caked. His skin was stretched drum-tight over his bony frame.
The knotty joints of his hips and shoulders stood out a good three inches from his body.
I could tell he was starved. I couldn’t figure it out. He didn’t belong in town.
He was far out of place with the boxers, poodles, bird dogs, and other breeds of town dogs.
He belonged in the country. He was a hunting hound. I raised one of his paws. There I read the story.
The pads were worn down slick as the rind on an apple. I knew he had come a long way, and no doubt had a long way to go.
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