Free Penny by Hal; Borland Page B

garage, dragging the chain, which jingled softly on the concrete.
    Tom came to the door, invited us in. Barbara said, “No thanks. We haven’t much time.” Carol came and repeated the invitation, got the same answer. Tom went back into the house. Carol said the same things that had been said over the phone, about her turning snappish, almost biting one of the neighboring youngsters.
    â€œI don’t know what’s got into her, I really don’t. But Tom finally said we’d just have to get rid of her. So—”
    Tom came back and handed me an envelope. “The papers. Everything is there, I think.” He shook his head, started to say something, then stopped. “At least, there aren’t a lot of kids over at your place for her to snap at.” Then he added, “But she never snapped at us. Never.”
    I got the leash from the car, unsnapped the chain from her collar, fastened the leash. She got to her feet, almost resignedly, and went to the car with me. I opened the door and she got in, settled herself on the back seat. Barbara said good-bye to Carol, I shook hands with Tom, and he said, “If you can’t do anything with her—well, do whatever you think best. She’s yours now.”
    The neighbor youngsters were still watching, now wide-eyed and grinning, as we backed out of the driveway and started home. Penny sat up and stared out the window, but she didn’t look back. She looked sad, almost surly, and she was very thin.
    Barbara said, “Carol told me she hasn’t been eating. Didn’t want the dog food and wouldn’t eat bread and milk any more.”
    We got home, and the minute she got out of the car she headed for the front porch, dragging the leash. I put the car away. Barbara let her in and when I got to the house Penny was on the back porch eating kibbled dog food moistened with milk. Eating like a starved child. She cleaned up one dishful and we gave her another. She put that away and started on a third before she was satisfied. Then she went in and lay down in her favorite place, under the bench.
    She slept for an hour, then went to the front door and wanted out. I let her out. She went down the walk and took off up the road. I thought she would soon be back, but half an hour passed and no Penny. We got out the car and drove a mile up the road, watching and listening. No sight or sound of her. We went down the road a mile and a half to the little bogland where we always hear the peepers first, and still no Penny. “Well,” I said, “that’s that. Nice knowing her. I hope she enjoyed that meal.”
    â€œI hope,” Barbara said, “that she has a great big tummy ache! She’s an ungrateful little brat!”
    â€œTut! I’m the one who calls her names.” And we managed to laugh. “Maybe she just has to prove her independence,” I said. “She has been badgered and scolded, and she has been chained up. And probably teased by those neighborhood kids. She got snappish and stubborn as a mule. So now she has to run away from us, just to prove that she can do what she wants to.… How’s that for animal psychology?”
    â€œOh, very good indeed. Where did you learn so much about canine reactions?”
    â€œStudying my own, of course.”
    Barbara laughed. “You can supply the obvious reply to that! ”
    We were almost back home. I thought I heard something, so I stopped the car and turned off the motor to listen. Sure enough, up on the hillside beyond the home pasture a dog was barking. Penny. Barking “treed,” which with Penny would mean she had something cornered on the ground. I hoped it wasn’t a porcupine. Or a skunk.
    I started the motor and drove on home, got the .22 rifle and struck out across the pasture and up the hillside. Sure enough, Penny had cornered a young woodchuck. Evidently she saw me coming and mustered the courage to close in just before I got