Mirror Of My Mood

There is a neighborhood tavern sitting on a northerly hump of the Blue Ridge, where the long chain peters out in southern Pennsylvania. Coming down the ridge one January afternoon we stopped at this place. I took off the pack and laid it against the tavern porch, told Dain to stay with it while I went inside. He curled up, dozed off even though light snow-flakes were settling on his coat. Sometime thereafter a man drove up in a truck, parked in front of the tavern and walked up the steps. Being careful not to come uncivilly close, he stopped for a moment to speak to Dain. The dog did not cringe, snarl or quiver with false affection. He raised his head, beat his tail a time or two, answered as politely as he could.

Since there were no other customers, the man, who was the manager of an apple orchard, came over and sat down with me at the bar. He asked me if the dog was mine. I nodded.

"What is he?"

"A collie-shepherd cross."

"That's a good one. You don't get many of those solid red dogs. I like the way he handles himself."

"I've had a lot of them. He's the best I ever had."

"I'd give you a hundred dollars, but I guess you wouldn't want to do that."

"No, you know how it is."

"Sure do, but I tell you what. If you ever get any of his pups let me know. Good dogs aren't easy to find."

A year or so later, Dain braced a Navaho cowpuncher who innocently but unexpectedly tried to walk into the cabin where we were living. So efficiently and calmly did the dog discharge his responsibilities that on the spot the Navaho, pulling off an ornate belt buckle won in a bull riding contest, offered that and again a hundred dollars for the dog.