I had never seen my father and mother look so tired and weary as they did on that night. I knew they wanted to comfort me, but didn't know what to say.
Papa tried. 'Billy,' he said, 'I wouldn't think too much about this if I were you. It's not good to hurt like that. I believe I'd just try to forget it. Besides, you still have Little Ann.'
I wasn't even thinking about Little Ann at that moment. I knew she was all right.
'I'm thankful that I still have her,' I said, 'but how can I forget Old Dan? He gave his life for me, that's what he did-just laid down his life for me. How can I ever forget something like that?'
Mama said, 'It's been a terrible night for all of us. Let's go to bed and try to get some rest. Maybe we'll all feel better tomorrow.'
'No, Mama,' I said. 'You and Papa go on to bed. I think I'll stay up for a while. I couldn't sleep anyway.'
Mama started to protest, but Papa shook his head. Arm in arm they walked from the room.
Long after my mother and father had retired, I sat by the fire trying to think and couldn't. I felt numb all over. I knew my dog was dead, but I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to. One day they were both alive and happy. Then that night, just like that, one of them was dead.
I didn't know how long I had been sitting there when I heard a noise out on the porch. I got up, walked over to the door, and listened. It came again, a low whimper and a scratchy sound.
I could think of only one thing that could have made the noise. It had to be my dog. He wasn't dead. He had come back to life. With a pounding heart, I opened the door and stepped out on the porch.
What I saw was more than I could stand. The noise I had heard had been made by Little Ann. All her life she had slept by Old Dan's side. And although he was dead, she had left the doghouse, had come back to the porch, and snuggled up close to his side.
She looked up at me and whimpered. I couldn't stand it. I didn't know I was running until I tripped and fell. I got to my feet and ran on and on, down through our fields of shocked corn, until I fell face down on the river's bank. There in the gray shadows of a breaking dawn, I cried until I could cry no more.
The churring of gray squirrels in the bright morning sun told me it was daylight. I got to my feet and walked back to the house.
Coming up through our barn lot, I saw my father feeding our stock. He came over and said, 'Breakfast is about ready.'
'I don't want any breakfast, Papa,' I said. 'I'm not hungry and I have a job to do. I'll have to bury my dog.'
'I tell you what,' he said, 'I'm not going to be very busy today, so let's have a good breakfast and then I'll help you.'
'No, Papa,' I said. 'I'll take care of it. You go and eat breakfast. Tell Mama I'm not hungry.'
I saw a hurt look in my father's eyes. Shaking his head, he turned and walked away.
From rough pine slabs, I made a box for my dog. It was a crude box but it was the best I could do. With strips of burlap and corn shucks, I padded the inside.
Up on the hillside, at the foot of a beautiful red oak tree, I dug his grave. There where the wild mountain flowers would grow in the spring, I laid him away.
I had a purpose in burying my dog up there on the hillside. It was a beautiful spot. From there one could see the country for miles, the long white crooked line of the river, the tall thick timber of the bottoms, the sycamore, birch, and box elder. I thought perhaps that on moonlight nights Old Dan would be able to hear the deep voices of the hounds as they rolled out of the river bottoms on the frosty air.
After the last shovel of dirt was patted in place, I sat down and let my mind drift back through the years. 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.'
