Marley & Me [antikvár]

The Perfect Dog «1» n the summer of 1967, when I was ten years old, my father caved in to my persistent pleas and took me to get my own dog. Together we drove in the family station wagon far into the Michigan countryside to a farm run by a rough-hewn woman and her ancient mother. The farm produced just one commodity—dogs. Dogs of ever}^ imaginable size and shape and age and temperament. They had only two things in common: each was a mongrel of unknown and indistinct ancestry, and each was free to a good home. We were at a mutt ranch. "Now, take your time, son," Dad said. "Your decision today is going to be with you for many years to come." I quickly decided the older dogs were somebody else's charity case. I immediately raced to the puppy cage. "You want to pick one that's not timid," my father coached. "Try rattling the cage and see which ones aren't afraid." I grabbed the chain-link gate and yanked on it with a loud clang. The dozen or so puppies reeled backward, collapsing