Her first appearance, down with the goats.
Looking through the fence that first night after we found her. She had been crying and we went down to check. Food and a little love and a box filled with old socks and she quieted down.
Huck in the goat trough.
We’d had Huckleberry maybe five years when a young black boy meeting Jonathan and “the girl” out walking, said, “That dog’s about five years old, isn’t she? My mama wouldn’t let me keep her.” We’d always suspected. The boy, when much younger, would walk past our yard with his mother on the way to the country store. They always looked for the dog. I think they fed her cookies and the like when we weren’t looking. Once when Huckleberry was in the house, I saw the boy peering, disappointed not to see her. He asked his mother, worried, “Where is she?”