Jack had five dogs, and when they stood together they looked like a flight of stairs: Brutus the great Newfoundland at the top, then Bogi (also a Newfoundland, but smaller), then Patty the Irish terrier, then Ouji the cocker spaniel, and finally Susy the little fox terrier at the bottom.
One afternoon, Patty spotted a bug and snapped at it — and that was her mistake. The bug attached itself to her tongue and would not let go. Patty couldn’t swallow it, spit it out, or do anything at all. She was most uncomfortable.
Brutus saw what had happened. He had already spotted Jack in the nearby field playing baseball, so he ran — straight across the diamond, ignoring the ball flying past, the boys shouting in alarm — straight to his master, barking urgently, eyes saying plainly: Come now. Come quick.
Jack understood immediately. “Brutus wouldn’t leave the field unless something was wrong.”
He ran home, found Patty with the bug stuck to her tongue, and quickly removed it. Patty jumped up and wagged and wriggled with relief.
Then she did the most touching thing: she seemed to understand, suddenly, that it was Brutus who had fetched help. Jack had the hands to fix the problem. But Brutus had seen what needed doing and done it.
Patty went to Brutus — so small beside the great dog — and licked his paws and rolled over on the grass, telling him in the best way she could that she was grateful, and that she knew, and that it mattered.
They all got bones. Jack got a piece of cake.
