Red Dog was special.Red Dog was special.
He was not one of those dogs who with other dogs ran howling into the wind. He just loved walking with me. Sometimes, on the gravel road, he walked so close that his bright red fur brushed against my leg.
"Red Dog," I'd say, "each morning when we meet for the first time, why do you always look so glad?"
Of course, Red Dog never did reply with words. If he wanted to say something, he spoke with his eyes, or the bend in his tail. However, since we were friends, that was enough.
At night, Red Dog slept on the front porch. Lying there, dreaming dreams of long summer days and endless walks, his night-world filled up with the moon and stars, hoot-owl hoots, and ghostly white fogs that crept silently into the fields.
Between dreams, I think that Red Dog must have awakened, raised his head, and looked around. Maybe then he became a little lonely. And probably he wondered why I got to sleep inside, but he had to sleep on the porch...
But, you see, Red Dog lived in a time when country dogs such as he were not allowed inside their masters' homes. In those days, most people didn't even believe that dogs had feelings, though I did.
Yes, during those days when we walked in the fields and woods, Red Dog and I helped one another see things in special ways. Weedy roadsides were like museums and the fields of corn and beans around us were like circuses with many rings.