But, for the most part he had
begun to carry his years a trifle seriously.
He was not yet in the winter or even the Indian Summer of his
beautiful life. But, at least, he had strolled into its early
autumn.
And this, be it well remembered, is the curse which Stepmother
Nature placed upon The Dog, when he elected to turn his back on
his own kind, and to become the only one of the world's
four-footed folk to serve Man of his own accord. To punish the
Dog for this abnormality, Nature decreed that his life should
begin to fail, almost as soon as it had reached the glory of its
early prime.
A dog is not at his best, in mind or in body, until he has passed
his third year. And, before he nears the ten-year mark, he has
begun to decline. At twelve or thirteen, he is as decrepit as is
the average human of seventy. And not one dog in a hundred can be
expected to live to fourteen.
(Lad, by some miracle, was destined to endure past his own
sixteenth birthday; a record seldom equaled among his race.)
And so to our story:--
When the car and the loaded equipment-truck drew up at the door,
that golden October day, Lad forgot his advancing years.
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