My name is Happy Compton, and I’m a dog. No special breed — not what you’d call a thoroughbred — but people say I’m brighter than a great many thoroughbreds. I’m glad they think so.
I was a waif when Louise and Ada found me. Their father had promised them a dog and was planning to go to a kennel to buy a fine one. But I turned up first: a homeless little dog, lonely and in need of someone to belong to.
They took me in. Fed me, loved me, made me warm.
When their father asked about the kennel dog he’d promised, Louise said: “The dogs in kennels will find homes — they’re in fine condition, they’ll be all right. But this little dog had no one. I’d rather have him. He’ll be happy here. No one could love him more than I do.”
“Except the way I love him,” said Ada — and to prove it she tucked me beside her on the pillow and covered me up, and Louise stroked my head, and I went off into the dreamland that dogs dream.
Because I was so obviously happy to be homeless no longer, they called me Happy. And they gave me their family name too.
Happy Compton. Isn’t that fine?
