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Meyer, Wallace (ed.) / The Wisconsin magazine
Volume XIII, Number 5 (February 1916)

Anundensen, George
Just my brown dog,   pp. Twenty-five-Twenty-six


Page Twenty-five


THE WISCONSIN MAGAZINE
JUST MY BROWN DOG
         By George Anundensen
           LIKE to think that some-
Qt3) VW 4, where in this friend-filled
           w orld there is a dog that
     ____ is waiting to follow me-
           my own Brown Dog, who
will look at me with tender under-
standing eyes, who will lift quick, sym-
pathetic ears to hear my voice, and
who will thump his lazy meditative
tail against the floor when I smile at
him across the room.
  I dream of him most often just at
lamp-light time when I turn in at my
own gate. As I feel my way through
the darkness up to the edge of the
porch I can almost feel his cold nose
come sniffing a welcome into my hand
and hear his four rough feet scratching
against the flooring as he dances about
telling me how glad he is to see me.
  I like to think that lie will seek me
out some day, out of a million or so of
people just like me, and elect to follow
me-just me, wherever I may lead,
with the simple faith of staunch friend-
ship.
   He will be the sort of dog that I can
 say, "Let's" to, and without question
 be counted upon to say, "All right !
 Let's" with all the eloquence of his en-
 thusiastic tail and his fun-killed eyes.
   It is queer how few folks one can say
 "Let's" to. And it is such a friendly,
 comradely sort of word-the kind of
 word that is an "open sesame" to all
 sorts of delightful "You-and-I" things.
 People are so uncertain when one sug-
 gests "Let's" to them. They always are
 so weary or so busy, or so interested,
 and that whisper of wanderlust that
starts me roaming to-day may call you
to-morrow, but I have come home
again, soul saturated with the open
way and very content, and you must
wander without me.
  My Brown Dog will be always ready
when I am; he will be that kind of dog,
I know, and we two will fill our
lungs with all the summer in the air
and run, and run, and run, until we
drop panting in the long, dusty grass
at the road-side.
  We will follow broad highways and
crooked lanes, and roads that run away
(;ff to hill-tops, through valleys, into
deepest woods, and over daisy-starred
meadows, and ever my Brown Dog will
we intensely interested in all that
passes, wvith the keen interest of the
l)orn wanderer.
  He will go darting off to investigate
some c ranny, or to drink with quick,
spasmicodic laps at some shady, willow-
kissed creek, and he will twist himself
into dusty, agitated circles to snap at
(n inquisitive blue-bottle fly, as we two
go romping through the wide blue and
green country-side.
  And then, on hill-tops, when the
wind from some far mountain sweeps
across the world, I will push my hands
deep into my sweater pockets and look
away, and away-past the gray gates
of the Now-past the edge of the Last
Camp-and then will I feel his harsh
rough little paw come rasping against
my blowing skirt, pleading dumbly for
me to come back and play with him.
   Best of all will be the camp-fires on
 the shore of some shadow-clad lake,
Twenty-five


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