All day and every day, life was a delight to the little dog. He
had friends everywhere, willing to romp with him. He had
squirrels to chase, among the oaks. He had the lake to splash
ecstatically in: He had all he wanted to eat; and he had all the
petting his hungry little heart could crave.
He was even allowed, with certain restrictions, to come into the
mysterious house itself. Nor, after one defiant bark at a
leopard-skin rug, did he molest anything therein. In the house,
too, he found a genuine cave:--a wonderful place to lie and watch
the world at large, and to stay cool in and to pretend he was a
wolf. The cave was the deep space beneath the piano in the music
room. It seemed to have a peculiar charm to Lad. To the end of
his days, by the way, this cave was his chosen resting place.
Nor, in his lifetime, did any other dog set foot therein.
So much for "all day and every day." But the nights were
different.
Lad hated the nights. In the first place, everybody went to bed
and left him alone. In the second, his hard-hearted owners made
him sleep on a fluffy rug in a corner of the veranda instead of
in his delectable piano-cave.
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