To him it made no difference how long the road, or how rough or rocky.
His old red feet would keep jogging along, on and on, mile after mile.
There would be no crying or giving up. When his feet grew tired and weary, he would curl up in the weeds and rest.
Water from a rain puddle or a mountain stream would quench his thirst and cool his hot dry throat.
Food found along the highway, or the offerings from a friendly hand would ease the pangs of hunger.
Through the rains, the snows, or the desert heat, he would jog along, never looking back.
Some morning he would be found curled up on the front porch. The long journey would be over. He would be home.
There would be a lot of tail- wagging and a few whimpering cries.
His warm moist tongue would caress the hand of his master. All would be forgiven. Once again the lights would shine in his dog’s world.
His heart would be happy. After my friend had disappeared in the darkness, I stood and stared at the empty alley.
A strange feeling came over me. At first I thought I was lonely or sad, but I realized that wasn’t it at all.
The feeling was a wonderful one. Although the old hound had no way of knowing it, he had stirred memories, and what priceless treasures they were.
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