“No, Papa,” I said. “I’ll take care of it. You go and eat breakfast. Tell Mama I’m not hungry.”
I saw a hurt look in my father’s eyes. Shaking his head, he turned and walked away.
From rough pine slabs, I made a box for my dog. It was a crude box but it was the best I could do.
With strips of burlap and corn shucks, I padded the inside.
Up on the hillside, at the foot of a beautiful red oak tree, I dug his grave.
There where the wild mountain flowers would grow in the spring, I laid him away.
I had a purpose in burying my dog up there on the hillside. It was a beautiful spot.
From there one could see the country for miles, the long white crooked line of the river,
the tall thick timber of the bottoms, the sycamore, birch, and box elder.
I thought perhaps that on moonlight nights Old Dan would be able to hear the deep voices of the hounds
as they rolled out of the river bottoms on the frosty air.
After the last shovel of dirt was patted in place, I sat down and let my mind drift back through the years.
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