Bertie eased into his favorite cushion on the red couch in the living room and yawned widely. He took a moment to look around the room. He watched the bright sunlight as it danced through the windows and made the crystal chandelier in the hallway sparkle like diamonds. He yawned again and stretched. The house was quiet and he was warm and cozy. He climbed up on the back of the couch and let his white tail brush against the red silk drapes. One more yawn, one more stretch. It was a good day to be a dog. Life was easy and comfortable. But, it hadn’t always been.
Bertie remembered a time when he didn’t have a nice house in which to live. There were no crystal chandeliers, no silk drapes, and no cozy sofas. There were no purple china bowls filled with tasty food. There were no windows sills on which to sit, no stuffed toys on which to chomp. But, worst of all, there was no one to rub his belly or tell him what a good boy he was. There was no one to scruff behind his ears and no one to sing him to sleep. There was no one to be his daddy.
"It’s nice to have a daddy," Bertie thought to himself as he raised his white eyebrows and then lowered them. "How did I ever get along without one?" He asked himself.
Being a puppy wasn’t difficult. His mama was there. She was a beautiful mama, too. She was a Westie just like Bertie. Bertie could still remember her. She had pointy ears and a sweet mama dog smile. She was warm and soft and gave him food to eat. And, there were other dogs, too--brother and sister dogs. They also had pointy ears. Bertie wondered what their names were.
Bertie sighed and nuzzled deeper into the pillow on the back of the sofa. "But, I couldn’t be a puppy forever," he thought. One day, a family came to take him away. They took him away from his mama. He was sad. But, he was also excited. He was getting to be a grown-up dog. And, grown-up dogs got to live with nice families. The only problem was that this family wasn’t so nice.
Bertie rolled over on his side, being careful not to fall off the red cushion. He raised one eyebrow and then the other, taking time to lick his nose. "What were their names?" Bertie asked himself. He couldn’t remember what the first people were called. He hadn’t lived with them for very long, and at the time he was just a baby puppy. Bertie shut his eyes and tried to remember. "What was my name then?" Bertie asked himself. It wasn’t "Bertie." Bertie sighed and slowly began to fall asleep.
As sleep washed over his terrier body, Bertie began to dream. In his dream, he was in a house—a strange unfamiliar house. He could see it and almost remember the way it smelled. He could hear someone talking. It was a man’s voice and he was saying, "I just don’t want that mutt in here."
Bertie woke up with a start—looking around the room. "Oh," he yawned. Bertie jumped off of the couch onto the floor and stretched—putting his tail up in the air and crawling forward with his front paws. He yawned again. Still sleepy, Bertie slowly ambled through the tall door into the hallway and stopped at the white wicker basket where his daddy kept all of Bertie’s toys. Bertie put his nose in the basket, sniffing each toy. He selected one—a fuzzy monkey wearing a red vest. The monkey had stretchy arms and squeaked when Bertie bit it. Bertie wagged his tail.
"I’m no mutt," Bertie said as he shook the stuffed monkey from side to side. "MY daddy says I’m a handsome Westie boy." Bertie got a good grip on the monkey with his powerful jaws and pushed it onto the wood floor, wagging his tail as it went, "Squeak, squeak, squeeeak!" He tossed the monkey up into the air and watched it fall to the floor before sneaking up on it and grabbing it again. Bertie set the monkey on the long rug that ran the length of the hallway. He then lay down next to it and rested his head on the monkey’s back. Bertie shut his eyes again.
"I’m a good boy," Bertie yawned. "But then, why did that man call me a mutt?" Bertie thought to himself. "I wish I could remember."
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