From the lot I
picked out a mouse-colored, rat-sized, sightless half-pound creature whose
head was shaped like a coffin. His, rudimentary ears were not half the
size of a squirrel's, but they were plastered high and close to his oblong
rectangular little skull. I handled gingerly the baby ribs and chest. Then
I dropped a blob of scarlet and fire-bright mercurochrome on the white
patch behind the neck; as a means of identification.
In another few
days, I knew, he would grow snub- nosed and round and would look exactly
like his brothers and sisters. I must mark him while I could. On the same
day I sent to the American Kennel Club the Supreme Court of dodgem
application blank for the registering of "SUNNYBANK THANE. Sire, Champion
Sunnybank Explorer; dam, Sunnybank Bauble. Whelped March 26, 1927. Color,
sable-and-white. Breeder, Albert Payson Terhune; Sunnybank Collie Kennels
certificate was Thane's admission card to immortality. Also it was legal
proof of the flawlessness of his ancestry.
I like to boast
that I picked Thane out, at a glance, as a future king. I did. But with
shame I confess I have made the same prophecy about many a youngster which
never proved to be better than passable. True, I had made a like forecast
for Champion Sunnybank Sigurd and for Champion Sunnybank Sigurdson and for
Cavalier and for jock and for Champion Sunnybank Explorer and for a few
other canine winners. But well, why use up space by citing all the
not-quite-good-enough collie pups for which I have foretold an equally
When Thane was
left alone in the wide and shaded kennel yard which once had held seven
brethren and sisters, it was up to me to lighten his loneliness.
Incidentally, it was up to me, if I wanted him to amount to anything, to
educate him beyond the mere rudiments of obedience which already he had
So every day for
an hour or two I would take him out by himself, for an educational hike,
or to accompany me on my round of The Place, or to lie in my study while I
worked. Much I talked to him, on these outings. Not merely giving him
orders or training him; but accustoming him to my voice and letting him
learn its inflections. Naturally, he did not understand one word in fifty
that I spoke to him. But he grew to understand my mood, whatever it might
be, and to get a general idea of the simpler meanings I was trying to
convey to him.
Meanwhile I was
teaching him, by patient training, the few needful things I wanted him to
learn. Also I was giving him sweeping uphill gallops to deepen his chest
and broaden his shoulders and establish the straightness of limb and
complete bodily poise I sought for him, Incidentally, I was giving him two
raw eggs and a pound of fresh raw beef a day, in addition to his regular
kennel rations of bread and milk and bones, and I was grooming his
blanket-like coat as one would groom a racehorse.
Does it seem silly
to you that I should have wasted all this time and meticulous care on a
mere dog? Well, if you can't understand a dog's jolly companionship and
the joy of developing it to anything beyond its ordinary limits, then
perhaps the financial side of the task may appeal to you.
Later, I refused
three thousand dollars for Sunnybank Thane. His cash income, from shows
and otherwise, climbed well toward a thousand dollars; before the dawn of
his second year. There are worse investments.
Perhaps you are
picturing a gigantic gold-and-white collie, with a stern aspect and with
the grave dignity of a prime minister. At casual glance, when he was on
the show-block, that describes Thane precisely. In every other respect,
that is precisely what he was not. He was an overgrown and lovable and
super-energetic puppy. That is all he ever would become. And therein lay
the bulk of his charm.
The play traits
cropped out when he and I began the fast daily walks. He would enliven the
hike by strenuous efforts to tear the straps from my puttees when I was
striding along at top speed. That was a favorite pastime of his, all his
life, and one which lost me perhaps a score of puttee straps and more than
once all but broke my neck. Another feat of his was to yank my
handkerchief from my pocket and lure me into knotting it and then throwing
it for him to retrieve. These were but two of Thane's uncountable pranks,
all performed with a certain stately grace which had nothing of the
harurn-scarum in it.
Then there were
his toys. He played with them as might a child. They amused him for hours.
Yet never did he destroy them, as would the average playful dog. They were
his dear possessions, to be treated as such. For example:
When he was less
than a year old he had a Teddy Bear which was an endless delight to him.
He would play dramatically, yet gently, with it, by the hour. One day he
left it on the lawn when he came into the house. Sandy found it there.
(Perhaps you remember reading about Sandy in my "Biography of a Puppy," in
my book, The Way o f A Dog.) Sandy in those days had a morbid love for
destructiveness which never before have I found in a grown collie. He fell
upon the luckless Teddy Bear and tore it into small independent republics.
Thane and I came
out of the house, just as the work of demolition was at a climax. Thane
took in the scene at one horrified glance. There, in fifty ragged pieces,
lay his adored bear playmate. With a sound more like a human yell of fury
than any ordinary canine utterance, he hurled himself at Sandy; bearing
him to the ground as might some golden hurricane, and ravening madly at
It was the first
time I had seen the gentle young giant out of temper. Gaily he had
withstood the teasing and rough romping of his fellow dogs. But the sight
of his destroyed plaything roused him to what might well have been murder
if I had not jumped into the fray and stopped it.
I bought him
another bear, as much as possible like the first. He played with it, once
in a while; but more, dutifully than ardently. His heart was with its
foremost of Canada's collie experts and judges, called on me in October of
1927. He looked over the kennels, alternately dealing,
out praise and mordant criticism. Presently he reached Thane's
yard. There he halted. For a full minute he said not a word. Then he
walked into the yard and began to "go over" the sevenmonth pup; as
Paderewski might test a piano. Presently he turned to me and said:
"I'll not ask you
if you'll sell him. Nobody would. He's ─
he's a collie."
The dog magazines
began to contain squibs about the wonder-puppy which was to "clean up
everything in sight" at the annual Westminster Kennel Club Dog show at
Madison Square Garden in February of 1928; and at the Collie Club of
America show, in the same month.
Far and near,
Thane was hailed as the world's coming collie. I began to preen myself in
advance as breeder and owner of still another Madison Square Garden
winner. The Westminster Dog Show is the classic
canine event of all America.
By the way, do you
recall that I said this dog-breeding game is "a gorgeous gamble"?
On the morning of
the last day of December, 1927, I let Thane out of his yard for our daily
hour or so together. Slowly, painfully, he came forth, in utter variance
to his wonted dynamic rush. He reached feebly for one of my puttee straps.
But he decided it was not worth playing with. I tied my handkerchief into
a knot and tossed it for him to retrieve. He took an undecided step toward
it. Then he slouched back to me and laid his head against my knee.
He was panting
heavily and there was a wheezy noise far down in his furry throat. I knelt
and listened to his breathing. Then I lifted his seventy-four pounds of
languid weight and carried him down to the stables, calling to the men to
dear out the biggest box stall for him; and bidding my English
superintendent, Robert Friend, to telephone our veterinary to drop
everything and drive over to Sunnybank at top speed.
The vet verified
my snap judgment. He said my glorious young collie paragon was a victim to
Now let me stop an
instant in this rambling talk, to make another confession: Thirty years
ago I knew everything about dogs that could be known. I had spent my life
among them. But, after more than another quarter. century of studying
them, even more closely, day after day, I admit
I don't know anything at all about them.
As fast as I learn
or evolve some supposed canine fact, that fact disproves itself. The only
nugget of unimpeachable wisdom I have been able to glean from my lifetime
of intensive dog study is summed up on this one grim axiom:
It had been my
theory that a collie should be allowed to stay out-of-doors day and night;
except when he chooses to go into his south-facing kennel-house; and that
the wintry elements toughen and strengthen him and give him a tremendous
coat. This had been the mode of life meted out to Thane from babyhood, as
to a hundred other Sunnybank collies. Yet, for the first time in my life,
I had on my hands a case of canine pneumonia which was not preceded by
The grand young
dog was sick, grievously sick. My experience has been that thrice out of
four times, a very sick dog is a dead dog. I had no hope of saving Thane.
Yet' I worked over him as seldom I had worked before. Robert Friend worked
Inside of an hour
the invalid was incased in an oiled silk-and-woolen double "pneumonia
jacket," from which corset-like casing his head and his hindquarters
emerged in masses of golden fur. Day and night Robert Friend and I wrought
over him Robert more faithfully than I rubbing him, giving him his
bi-hourly medicines, making him inhale (to his disgust) the fumes of
benzoin-and hot-water, etc.
For a week or so
it was nip-and-tuck with death, down there in the dim box stall. The dog
lay, breathing noisily, on a bed of blankets, in one corner; languid,
dull, a pathetically patient shadow of his vivid self.
Then, in a flash,
he was not sick at all. At least he did not feel sick, although the doctor
said he must remain in his box-stall hospital for at least a month longer
and must still have his medicine and an occasional "steaming." His fever
temperature had vanished and his wildly gay spirits had come back.
temperature dropped gradually from one hundred and six to normal. His
strength came rushing back to him, and with it his love of fun. He began
to play assiduously with his bear and with an old shoe and with other toys
we put into his stall.
One of these toys
was a huge round cat's head, black and made of rubber. Like the bear, it
would squeak, lamentably and loudly, if it was squeezed. At first Thane
would press the rubber cat between his jaws, listening with critical
enjoyment to its squeaks. Then he found he could produce the same sound
He would chivvy
the spheroid toy into the center of the stall. There he would press his
forefoot on it, with changing degrees of intensity, for minutes at a
time, reveling in the varied noises evoked by the pressures. (Yet they say
dogs cannot reason anything out!) This was a never ending source of joy
to the convalescent giant. When any human visitor came to see hire,
invariably he would fetch forth his rubber cat and set his forefoot to
work in producing these entrancing screeches.
Also, he invented
a game in connection with a two-inch rat-hole in one corner of the stall.
When Robert or myself came in with the medicine spoon Thane would rush
over to this rat-hole and make spectacular efforts to crawl into it,
fluffing his coat up to about double its normal size in the idiotic
attempt. The sight of the medicine spoon always was a signal for a dive
toward the hole.
By the second week
in February he was pronounced, well. Heart and lungs once more were in
perfect condition. The vet said it would be safe to take him to the
Madison Square Garden Show; more especially since he was still under a
year old and therefore need stay at the show for only a single day.
Fanciers clamored for me to show him there, prophesying that he would win
every prize in sight.
But I kept him at
home. I would rather have a live chum than a dead champion. Perhaps I am
foolish. Assuredly, I miss many valuable dog-show prizes and points in
that way. But I sleep the better o' nights for knowing I am not
jeopardizing the life of a dog-comrade for the selfish sake of a scrap of
ribbon and a few dollars or medals or cups.
I don't seek to
defend this attitude of mine, for which I have received much good-natured
guying from wiser and less mawkish dog-fanciers. To my biased way of
thinking, all dogs die too soon, at best; even though I and so many other
humans seem to live too long. Why shorten, willfully, a collie's pitifully
short span of normal life by making him take needless chances for his
So Sunnybank Thane
stayed smugly at home all winter, in his box stall, with his toys; while
lesser collies were rolling up points toward their championships and were
annexing cash prizes.
He was a gallant
invalid, giving no sign of the pain and restless discomfort that at first
were his, nor moping at the narrow quarters which replaced his miles of
daily gallop and romp.
It must have been
deadly stupid, for him, cooped up there all winter in a box stall; he who
had had the run of the Place. Yet he bore it all right gaily, and he
devised game after game to lighten the tedium. During that winter, too,
he waxed strangely humanized, thanks to his dependence on us for
companionship and amusement.
At last he was out
of danger. The heart and the lungs were back to their old form. On dry
days he could go out for an hour or two and wander at will. The
corset-like pneumonia jacket was cut off, too, much to his relief.
According to all
precedent, the weeks of high fever and the galling of the air-tight jacket
ought to have stripped the hair from his sides and back, and left him
well-nigh naked. Instead, he emerged from his box-stall winter with the
most incredibly mighty golden coat I have seen on any collie of his age.
Once more "Anything can happen."
is the first dangerously stricken Sunnybank collie to emerge alive from
that "incurables' ward" box stall. I had grown to hate the sinister room.
In it have died Jock and Bobby and Treve, and other unsparable collie
chums of mine whose wistful ghosts still haunt my memory. (One more great
dog, later, was to die there. As you shall see.)
came. With it came the great annual out-door dog show of the Morris &
Essex Kennel Club at Madison, New Jersey, May 26, 1928. A notable
assemblage of collies was to be there, some of them champions, others that
had won renown in the big winter shows. I entered young Thane for the
Novice Class and for several other and harder classes, at Madison. Never
before had the huge youngster been to a show. Never before had he been in
a motor-car or away from Sunnybank.
Even an ordinarily
fearless collie may flinch at the ordeal of plunging for the first time
into an assemblage of three thousand strange and clangorously noisy and
odorous dogs, and of having thousands of strange humans staring at him and
chirping at him. With some curiosity I watched for the effect of the
ordeal on our home-bred and home-kept Thane.
He trotted into
the show, on his leash, as unflinchingly as a clubman might thread the
crowds on Fifth Avenue. True, everything and everybody interested him
hugely. But it was a pleasurable interest. There was no fear in it. He was
having a glorious time.
Then came the
collie judging. I led Thane into the ring; where, with several other
untried collies, he was to test his fortune in the Novice Class.
Enno Meyer was the
collie judge that day.
Thane went through
the needful ring evolutions the
parade, the trotting back and forth, the posing on the block, the expert
handling of the judge and all the other tiring tests. He went through them
with evident joy. In fact, he frisked through them.
He was having a
beautiful spree. When the judge gave him the blue ribbon, first prize of
his class, there was a burst of handclapping from the spectators on all
four sides of the ring. The applause seemed to please him almost as much
as had the squeaking of his rubber cat.
He was in several
classes that day. He won in every one of them. Then came the gruelingly
hard Winners Class; the supreme test in which the winners of all the
earlier classes: Puppy, Novice, American-bred, Limit, Open, etc. Must
compete for the purple rosette which carries with it a certain number of
points toward a championship. The number of points depending on the
number of dogs shown.
thrilled merrily to the skirl of hand-claps which followed upon Enno
Meyer's awarding him the rosette.
youngster had been acclaimed Winner; and at his very first show he had
received four of the fifteen points needful to a championship.
I did not take him
back to his bench at once, but let him stay out in the Maytime shade of
the cool green grass with me for a while. Crowds came up to congratulate
me on his victory. Wise-eyed veteran collie experts came close to examine
him and to pass verdict on him and to praise him to the skies and to
foretell a meteoric show-career for him.
And Thane? How did
all this hurricane of adulation affect him? Did it turn his head? (It came
rather close to turning mine. For this was the reward of years of breeding
experiments on my part.) This is how Thane received it:
As his show work
was over for the day, I had given him a fair-sized beef bone. He lay
sprawling on the grass, in benign content, gnawing happily on it, while
the waves of approval surged over him and while I was fingering his purple
rosette and his sheaf of blue ribbons and the medals and the handful of
gold pieces he had won.
Personally, I was
hard put to it to bear in mind the first half of my own kennel motto:
"To win without
boasting; to lose without excuses."
But his triumphant
debut and his long stride up the championship climb and the praise of the
collie experts and the still more flattering scowls of some of the collie
exhibitors meant to Thane only that he was monstrous comfortable sprawling
on the shady grass with such a meatful beef bone to pick clean.
The Paths of Glory
Lead but to the-Bone!
photographers swarmed up. And once more the young dog must pose
majesticallythis time for a clicking battery
whose sounds amused him almost as much as had the hand-clapping of the
rail-birds. When they had gone, he threw himself on the grass again and
made growling, terrifying dives at the Mistress's feet, to coax, her into
a romp with him. Next, he rolled on his back with an imbecile expression
and with all feet in air; looking like an utter fool, a canine Village
Then he tried to
pick my pocket for animal crackers; and at last he returned to his beef
Such was his
victory conduct. It was worthy of a silly puppy, and it was ludicrously
amiss for a huge and stately creature which had just been acclaimed as
Thane had been acclaimed. In brief, he had posed statuesquely as long as
such pose was commanded by his Master.
Then, the day's
work being over, he lapsed into grotesquely unstatuesque puppyhood.
A month later, at
the Rye, New York, outdoor dog show, he repeated his initial triumph;
piling up three more points and defeating all collie competitors. He had
earned, now, the "two shows, of three or more points each," which 'are the
necessary and hardest part of any dog's championship struggle. The rest of
his fifteen points he could pick up, if need be, one at a time, at small
outdoor shows, during the next five years; should he live so long. The
toughest part of the struggle was over.
weather was coming on hot weather, sticky weather, breathless weather,
weather in which a wealth of coat like Thane's is as much a burden as
would be a collegian's coonskin overcoat in the tropics. I was advised
most urgently to send him on the circuit of summer shows, to clean up his
championship in a rush.
few minutes ago I told you I would rather have a live chum than a dead
champion. Also, during the stifling summer heat, I would rather have a dog
of mine snoozing comfortably in my cool study or splashing deeply in the
chilly lake, than chained to a hot bench under a hotter tent roof; or made
to stand and to, parade in a sun-scourged judging-ring.
Therein, I was
foolish. I admit that, without argument. But there are plenty of autumn
shows, where the heat torture is absent. If he should not have shed all
his immense coat by that time (which I was certain he would have. done),
perhaps he could pick up one or two more points at nearby outdoor dog
shows to which he could be driven by motor in an hour or less. Or perhaps
he might not win anything at these. It was all a gamble. Meanwhile, he was
happy here at home.
For two days
before Thane went to his shows, he was dosed regularly with Delcreo, a
safe and harmless distemper preventive. The moment he left the shows, his
nose and his lips and the pads of his feet were sponged with grain alcohol
(which he hated); flaked naphthaline was rubbed deep into his coat; and he
was treated to a mighty swig of castor oil-a nauseous dose which dimmed
for the moment his faith in human kindness; but which is the best thing I
know of to avert distemper. The same treatment has been given to all my
Meantime, he was
alive. Which pleased his maudlin master infinitely more than would all the
championship certificates the American Kennel Club ever issued. I would
rather have had his Paths of Glory lead to the Bone than to the
destination named in Gray's Elegy.
To me, it has
always seemed far more interesting and worth while to try to perpetuate in
my dogs certain desired traits of courage and cleverness and sense and
elfin fun and stanchness and originality and the like, than to seek mere
physical perfection by the successive mating of certain arbitrarily
then as in
Thane's case, I try to produce a fine show specimen. Sometimes I succeed.
Sometimes do not. Sometimes once in a great while, as with Thane I can
evolve a dog which combines both the inner and the outer traits I am
If he can inherit
only one set of these traits, then I prefer to have him inherit the nature
rather than the appearance of the type I am aiming at. That, also, is
silly. I admit it. But it is fun to eliminate unpleasant traits and build
up pleasant ones, by wise breeding.
For example, there
was a magnificent merle collie of blazingly savage temper. He was Champion
Grey Mist. His beauty was blurred by his savagery. I secured the
besttempered of his daughters as a mate for my great Bruce, whose temper
was sunny and whose disposition was sweeter than that of any other dog I
have owned. At the same time Bruce was as fearless as was savage Champion
From this mating,
our grand old Sunnybank Gray Dawn hero of my book, Gray Dawn was born;
with all the grandfather's savagery bred out of him, except such as every
good watch-dog needs; and with Bruce's and Grey Mist's courage and size
and beauty. Dawn's son, my Sunnybank Sandstorm ("Sandy") has many of the
best of these traits. So has Sandstorm's black son, my Sunnybank King
Coal. So have Coal's children.
grandsire, my Champion Sunnybank Sigurd the "Treve" of my book of that
name had a certain eerie mischief and a fund of humor and of queer
melodramatic originality the
changed remnants of one or two unpleasant ancestral peculiarities which
had been bred out of him.
Treve's three best
sons, Sigurdson and Cavalier and Explorer, differed as much in nature as
ever did three diverse men. All three were gentle and playful with
accredited humans. But with other male dogs Cavalier was savagely
quarrelsome. Champion Sunnybank Sigurdson was alternately fierce and
frolicsome, and in many ways like his sire. Champion Sunnybank Explorer
was almost colorless in his conduct.
Explorer was one
of the quietest and most diffident and sensitive dogs I have owned. Yet
his son, Thane, was almost the physical and mental reincarnation of his
own grandfather, Treve. I found myselfas did the Mistressinvoluntarily
calling him Treve and speaking of him as Treve; although golden Treve had
been dead since June of 1922. Character and appearance skipped a
generation and cropped out to an uncanny degree in Thane.
I have seen dogs
which very evidently knew and cared when they had won or lost in the show
ring. They would leave the ring, strutting or slinking, according to
whether or not they happened to have received a blue ribbon. Any observant
dog-breeder will bear me out in this. Yes, there are many dogs to which
victory or defeat means much.
But Thane was not
one of them. To him, the ring and the crowds and the competing dogs seemed
to be component parts of a thrillingly amusing scene, set for his
benefit. I do not believe he had the faintest idea what it, was all about
or that he himself was on exhibition. He posed or paraded at command; and
he did it all well. Not with Sigurdson's calm perfection, nor with
Explorer's glum distaste for crowds, nor with Treve's absurd sense of the
occasion's dramatic values.
No, Thane behaved
in the ring precisely as he behaved at home, and with not an atom more of
self-consciousness. In all his short life he knew nothing but friendliness
and good-fellowship from humans; and he did not know there could be
anything else. Therefore, he suffered the judge to handle and examine him;
even as he permitted Sunnybank guests to pat him.
He felt the
keenest interest in the other dogs in the ring, and he tried gleesomely to
lure them into romps. When I drew him away from them he looked
reproachfully up at me, as though trying to tell me that I was spoiling
the beginning of a jolly friendship.
I did not have to
"show" himin other words, to attract his
attention by means of some squeaking toy or bit of fried liver, so that he
would stand alertly at attention. The sight of other exhibitors, showing
their dogs, was an endless delight to him. Unwittingly they were "showing"
my dog along with their own. For he followed all their sometimes frantic
gesticulations with a joyous interest. He was vividly on the alert, from
nose to tail tip.
Ever, at the back
of his gay brain, I knew, was the promise of that after-sprawl on the cool
ringside grass, with his beef bone to gnaw at. That was the supreme moment
of the show for him.
Yes, the Paths of
Glory led but to the Bone!
You have just read
the life story of my golden Champion Sunnybank Thane, as I wrote it for a
national magazine in the summer of 1928. Would you like to hear the rest
When September of
1928 brought cool weather, I took Thane to three more dog shows. At all of
themTuxedo and Cornwall and Westchesterhe received the "Winners" award
as well as "Best of Breed."
At the Cornwall
show the collie ring was within a yard or two of the bandstand. As the
collies of Thane's paraded into the ring, the many-pieced band burst into
thunder of jazz, just above their heads. This in spite of bribe-fringed
entreaties that the playing be delayed until after the classes should be
Never before had
Thane heard such a roaring burst of sound. Well might he have cringed or
bolted. I whispered to him,
STEADY! I'm here."
This as the first
blare of cacophony roared over him. The gallant young dog heard me and he
Vibrant with the
ear-cracking novelty of the din, he glanced questioningly up into my face.
Then he went through his ring paces as calmly as if he were in the
practice ring at home. He won his class. He received "Winners" and then
"Best of Breed."
In five shows, in
a space of less than five monthsincluding the torrid weeks when I had
kept him at homemy golden collie had won the fifteen points which, by
American Kennel Club law, made him a "Champion of Record." He became
"CHAMPION Sunnybank Thane." And he was acclaimed everywhere as the
greatest collie of the decade.
I do not believe
in showing champions, in the ring; and thus deterring some younger or
lesser dog from working his way up to the all-important title. Thane was a
champion. Therefore, for the rest of his days, Thane should remain at
Sunnybank; unexhibited, and reaping the reward of his prowess.
But only a handful
of time remained for him to enjoy his laurels.
He won his
championship in late September, 1928. On the morning of April 26, 1929, he
and I went for a walk together. The dog was wildly gay and active. When I
went into my study to work I shut him in his yard. An hour later my
superintendent showed a party of unbidden visitorsstrangersmotor
touristsover the kennels. He told me later that they lingered long in
front of Thane's yard, several of them; while the rest moved onward with
their guide. What they did or did not do, I don't know. For what other
kennelsif for any at allthey were emissaries, I don't know.
But half an hour
before lunchtime, I went out for an inspection tour of Sunnybank. I let
Thane out of his yard. Instead of dashing forth, as always, like a burst
of golden flame, he lurched slowly toward me, head and tail adroop,
panting and in evident agony.
As when he had had
pneumonia, I gathered him up in my arms and carried him to the box stall
that had been his sick-bay during his earlier siege of illness. And I
shouted to my superintendent to telephone for the veterinary.
Twelve hours later
Champion Sunnybank Thane was dead. Nobody knows how or why.
He was born on the
26th of the month. He was registered on the 26th of the month. He went to
his first show on the 26th of the month. He went to his final and crowning
show on the 26th of the month. He died on the 26th of the month, at the
beginning of the 26th month of his shining young life.
then, dog shows haven't interested me overmuch. I haven't shown any of my
few surviving collies. It isn't a question of sulks, but genuine dearth of
Queer, isn't it?
And peace to Thane's bright memory!