That evening when I came in from the fields, she was gone. I hurried to my mother.
Mama told me she had seen her go up the hollow from the house, so weak she could hardly stand.
Mama had watched her until she had disappeared in the timber. I hurried up the hollow, calling her name.
I called and called. I went up to the head of it, still calling her name and praying she would come to me.
I climbed out onto the flats; looking, searching, and calling. It was no use. My dog was gone.
I had a thought, a ray of hope. I just knew I’d find her at the grave of Old Dan. I hurried there.
I found her lying on her stomach, her hind legs stretched out straight, and her front feet folded back under her chest.
She had laid her head on his grave. I saw the trail where she had dragged herself through the leaves.
The way she lay there, I thought she was alive. I called her name. She made no movement.
With the last ounce of strength in her body, she had dragged herself to the grave of Old Dan.
Kneeling down by her side, I reached out and touched her.
There was no response, no whimpering cry or friendly wag of her tail.
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