Aug 31, 1928
Brownie
Brownie is dead. He wasn't much of a pup, just an ordinary scrub dog, but beloved by Betty Ann of the Pilot household. He never won any prizes at a dog show; he had no fine points. He was just a faithful, affectionate dog.
A few years ago a stray dog, homeless, helpless, probably desperate, feeling the urge of motherhood, crawled under a strange porch and took part in the miracle of creation. There were seven of the offspring, woolly, playful little fellows. It was our porch. It was the first haven that offered. It was a safe haven.
Betty Ann secured good homes for them all. She kept Brownie. In the exuberance of his spirits he chased automobiles and sometimes barked as people passed the house, but he never harmed anyone and was faithful to his mistress.
Some heartless human being poisoned Brownie. When he got the lethal potion he didn't make any fuss about it, he just crawled off by himself and kept quiet while the poison gnawed at his vitals. Dogs are like that. His big liquid brown eyes showed gratitude and appreciation for a friendly word or a pat on the head, but he preferred to be alone with his agony. Then he crawled further into the weeds and died.
If the person who poisoned a harmless and faithful dog and brought grief to the little girl who was his loving mistress can get any satisfaction out of his cowardly act he is welcome to it.
People still do this for no reason. I don't understand why some people are just jerks.
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