She was weak and miserable,
and though she was only four years old, she seemed like an old dog. This
was on account of the poor food she had been fed on. She could not run
after Jenkins, and she lay on our heap of straw, only turning over with
her nose the scraps of food I brought her to eat. One day she licked me
gently, wagged her tail, and died.
As I sat by her, feeling lonely and miserable, Jenkins came into the
stable. I could not bear to look at him. He had killed my mother. There
she lay, a little, gaunt, scarred creature, starved and worried to death
by him. Her mouth was half open, her eyes were staring. She would never
again look kindly at me, or curl up to me at night to keep me warm. Oh,
how I hated her murderer! But I sat quietly, even when he went up and
turned her over with his foot to see if she was really dead. I think he
was a little sorry, for he turned scornfully toward me and said, "She
was worth two of you; why didn't you go instead?"
Still I kept quiet till he walked up to me and kicked at me. My heart
was nearly broken, and I could stand no more. I flew at him and gave him
a savage bite on the ankle.
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