Almost every one might, like Grace Greenwood and Gautier, write a History of my Pets and make a readable book.

Carlyle, the grand old growler, was actually attached to a little white dog--his wife's special delight, for whom she used to write cute little notes to the master.

And when he met with a fatal accident, he was tenderly nursed by both for months, and when the doctor was at last obliged to put him out of pain by prussic acid, their grief was sincere.

They buried him at the top of the garden in Cheyne Row, and planted cowslips round his grave, and his mistress placed a stone tablet, with name and date, to mark the last resting place of her blessed dog.
"I could not have believed," writes Carlyle in the Memorials, "my grief then and since would have been the twentieth part of what it was--nay, that the want of him would have been to me other than a riddance.

Our last midnight walk together (for he insisted on trying to come), January 31st, is still painful to my thought.