But always; after the
first few stiff bounds, he would come to a panting halt and turn
back wearily to his resting place in the veranda's coolest
corner; as indignant over his own weakness, as he would have been
at fetters which impeded his limbs.
He was more and more sensitive about this awkward feebleness of
his. And he sought to mask it; in ways that seemed infinitely
pathetic to the two humans who loved him. For instance, one of
his favorite romps in bygone days had been to throw himself down
in front of the Mistress and pretend to bite her little feet;
growling terrifically as he did it. Twice of late, as he had been
walking at her side, his footing had slipped or he had lost his
balance, and had tumbled headlong Instantly, both times, he had
begun to growl and had bitten in mock fury at the Mistress's
foot. By this pitiful ruse he strove to make her believe that his
fall had been purposeful and a part of the olden game.
But worst of all he missed the long walks on which, from
puppyhood, he had always accompanied the Mistress and the Master.
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