Read Penny for Free Online Page A

crushed it to coarse granules and put it with the grain in the feeders. The birds ate some, but they kicked a good deal more of it out of the feeders and onto the ground. And that dog loved it after it had been put in the bird feeders and kicked out! She would go out with me to burn the papers or fill the feeders and she would stand there under the feeders and gluttonize on that kibbled dog food, some of it still bone dry, some soggy with moisture. She didn’t care what state it was in, she simply gobbled it down. I tried it again in her dish, but she turned up her nose and walked away. Five minutes later she was out under the bird feeders, slurping it up.
    But, of all things, she still liked an occasional bowl of cornflakes and milk, and eventually when she was hungry enough, she tried the kibbled food again, out of her bowl, and found that it was almost as good as that under the bird feeders. From time to time she would eat a whole bowl of it. But she always got her ears in the food, especially in anything with milk on it. Those long ears were a problem at mealtime. I suggested pinning them up over her head, like ear flaps on a winter cap, with clothespins. Barbara didn’t think that was a good idea. I suggested tying them up with a small scarf. She didn’t like that idea either. She called Sybil, who said to get “a long-eared dog dish.” I went to the village and found one, a simple arrangement, a rather big bowl with an inner cup to put the food in. The ears didn’t drag in it. I bought one and took it home, and Barbara said that Penny hadn’t missed me at all. Barbara had played records and Penny had listened with her, lying beside her chair. “She doesn’t like The Music Man , but she is crazy about Tijuana Brass. Anything with Herb Alpert’s trumpet really sends her.”
    That evening Barbara’s friend Anna, who lives over beyond Canaan, phoned. “I hear you’ve got another dog,” she said. “A basset hound.”
    â€œYes,” Barbara said, “we’ve got a dog again. For a while, anyway. Who told you?”
    â€œIt was in the paper.”
    â€œWhich paper?”
    â€œThe Waterbury paper.”
    â€œOh. I wonder who put that in?”
    Even before they had hung up, I knew who wrote that story. Lila, the town clerk. I told Barbara, and she said, “Well, at least we won’t have to advertise her now. More people will read that story than would read a lost-dog notice among the want ads.”

Four
    Two days later, after we had done the morning’s work at the typewriters, the three of us, Barbara and Penny and I, went for a walk up the road before lunch. It was a beautiful day, brilliant sun and a melting breeze, and high time too, with a foot of snow still on the ground. The road was clean and dry, though, and for the first time Penny didn’t try to haul me along like a barge. She walked almost sedately and at approximately our own pace. About a quarter of a mile and Barbara turned back, saying she wanted to get the lunch started and for me and Penny to go on and not hurry back. So we continued up the road another quarter mile or so and seemed to be on terms of complete understanding. Penny was in a rather gently playful mood, something unusual for her. When she played she usually romped and galloped. But now she pranced beside me and reached up to catch the leash in her mouth. I knew what she wanted and finally I humored her—I let her take the leather handhold of the leash, and here she was, actually leading herself. She shook it, made a musical little jingle of the chain. She continued to prance, now with a strut, beside me, matching her pace to mine.
    I turned back toward home, and she was willing to do exactly as I did, turn when I did, walk at my pace. She was being Little Miss Perfection with absolutely flawless manners. We walked that way about halfway home and came to the railway embankment, where the stub line of