At first I was for taking him back to you, myself. But my wife doesn't want me to. So, as usual, we've compromised by doing what she wants. She wants him to stay right here. Next time, his crazy luck might land him in dog heaven instead of here at Sunnybank. She says she'd rather have a live chum than a dead champion. Maybe she's right. I find she's apt to be.

The Master talked of buying a whalebone-and-steel-and-snow bull terrier, or a more formidable if more greedy Great Dane. But the Mistress wanted a collie. So they compromised by getting the collie.

Any man with money to make the purchase may become a dog's owner. But no man --spend he ever so much coin and food and tact in the effort-- may become a dog's Master without consent of the dog. Do you get the difference? And he whom a dog once unreservedly accepts as Master is forever that dog's God.

All dogs die too soon. Many humans don't die soon enough. A dog is only a dog. And a dog is too gorgeously normal and wholesome to be made ridiculous in death by his owner's sloppy sentimentality.

This is the magic secret of dog training -- lose control over yourself and you at once lose control of the dog. Your strongest and most irresistible weapon is iron patience.

There are easier ways, you know, of showing how much inferior you are to a dog than by kicking him.

Would Man but deign to serve his God as they, Millennium must dawn within the year.

If more folks were afraid to keep dogs, there'd be easier pickings for them that make their living by what they can find in folks' houses at night.