I could think of only one thing that could have made the noise. It had to be my dog. He wasn’t dead. He had come back to life.
With a pounding heart, I opened the door and stepped out on the porch. What I saw was more than I could stand.
The noise I had heard had been made by Little Ann. All her life she had slept by Old Dan’s side.
And although he was dead, she had left the doghouse, had come back to the porch, and snuggled up close to his side.
She looked up at me and whimpered. I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t know I was running until I tripped and fell.
I got to my feet and ran on and on, down through our fields of shocked corn, until I fell face down on the river’s bank.
There in the gray shadows of a breaking dawn, I cried until I could cry no more.
The churring of gray squirrels in the bright morning sun told me it was daylight.
I got to my feet and walked back to the house. Coming up through our barn lot, I saw my father feeding our stock.
He came over and said, “Breakfast is about ready.” “I don’t want any breakfast, Papa,” I said.
“I’m not hungry and I have a job to do. I’ll have to bury my dog.”
“I tell you what,” he said, “I’m not going to be very busy today, so let’s have a good breakfast and then I’ll help you.”
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