Where the alley emptied into the street, he stopped and looked back. I waved my hand.
As I watched him disappear in the twilight shadows, I whispered these words: “Good-bye, old fellow. Good luck, and good hunting!”
I didn’t have to let him go. I could have kept him in my back yard, but to pen up a dog like that is a sin.
It would have broken his heart. The will to live would have slowly left his body.
I had no idea where he had come from or where he was going.
Perhaps it wasn’t too far, or maybe it was a long, long way.
I tried to make myself believe that his home was in the Ozark Mountains somewhere in Missouri, or Oklahoma.
It wasn’t impossible even though it was a long way from the Snake River Valley in Idaho.
I figured something drastic must have happened in his life, as it is very unusual for a hound to be traveling all alone.
Perhaps he had been stolen, or maybe he had been sold for some much-needed money.
Whatever it was that had interrupted his life, he was trying to straighten it out.
He was going home to the master he loved, and with the help of God, he would make it.
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