My friend rack is a retriever--very black, very curly, perfect in shape, but just a retriever; and he is really not my friend, only he thinks he is, which comes to the same thing.

So convinced is he that I am his guide, protector, and true master, that if I were to give him a downright scolding or even a thrashing he would think it was all right and go on just the same.

His way of going on is to make a companion of me whether I want him or not.

I do not want him, but his idea is that I want him very much.

I bitterly blame myself for having made the first advances, although nothing came of it except that he growled.