I remember our first dog. His name was Tippy. A Boston Bull. He was missing one evening after an Army convoy stopped in front of our house on their way to New York. We lived in Gettysburg Pa. We didn’t know he was taken. We thought he was just out for the night. Then after a day or two we knew he wasn’t just out. Maybe a few weeks later at suppertime there was that old familiar scratch on the kitchen door. Mother almost ran to the door. We all gathered there on the back porch around Tippy. Mother, Dad, Brother and I. He lay there with bloody feet from his trip home from where we don’t know. My mother petted him as he sighed and then he died there. He came home.
That was in 1943 or 1944 and I’ve never forgotten that all my life. Our family and my family have had many dogs since. We loved them all almost as much as they loved us.

 Terry form PA