I thought of the old K. C. Baking Powder can, and the first time I saw my pups in the box at the depot.
I thought of the fifty dollars, the nickels and dimes, and the fishermen and blackberry patches.
I looked at his grave and, with tears in my eyes, I voiced these words: “You were worth it, old friend, and a thousand times over.”
In my heart I knew that there in the grave lay a man’s best friend.
Two days later, when I came in from the bottoms where my father and I were clearing land,
my mother said, “Billy, you had better look after your dog. She won’t eat.”
I started looking for her. I went to the barn, the corncrib, and looked under the porch.
I called her name. It was no use. I rounded up my sisters and asked if they had seen Little Ann.
The youngest one said she had seen her go down into the garden. I went there, calling her name.
She wouldn’t answer my call. I was about to give up, and then I saw her.
She had wiggled her way far back under the thorny limbs of a blackberry bush in the corner of the garden.
I talked to her and tried to coax her out. She wouldn’t budge. I got down on my knees and crawled back to her.
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