bothered to make any friends, someone to care about him and alert the authorities that he was missing.
A gorge blocked his path. His confusion grew: do I go back? Or should I follow along the rim of this
barrier? He looked down towards the bottom of the gorge and decided it was too risky to climb down.
The rim was equally uninviting so he turned to go back the way he came.
He reached a clearing and sat on a rock. "I'm not getting anywhere. I better think about this for
awhile.'' He stabbed his pipe in his mouth and sucked on it. The burnt tobacco residue soothed him. The
light was fading fast and it was turning cold so he gathered leaves and brush to prepare a shelter.
The next morning, at first light, he was traveling fast determined not to spend another night in the
open. He has found a trail and followed it; it must lead somewhere. He rounded a bend and ran headon into Hoover.
The big dog leaped on him knocking him to the ground and smothering him with his tongue. Whitey
covered his face with his arms. "Wait a minute! Wait a minute! You don't need to get so rambunctious.
Where have you been?'' The mauling continued so Whitey wrapped his arms around Hoover's neck and
rolled on top. Now it was the dog's turn to be uncomfortable. He yelped, whined, and fought to get free.
Whitey released his friend and climbed to his feet. "Behave yourself.'' He kept a hand on Hoover's head
and pushed him down preventing anymore leaps off the ground.
Whitey knelt beside his pet, stroking him, talking in a gentle tone, and calming him. Finally he rose
and resumed his journey. He stopped at the sound