The Dog Who Wouldn't Be

The Dog Who Wouldn't Be

Language: English

Pages: 211

ISBN: 0553279289

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Farely Mowat's best loved book tells the splendidly entertaining story of his boyhood on the Canadian prairies.  Mutt's pedigree was uncertain, but his madness was indisputable.  He climbed tress and ladders, rode passenger in an open car wearing goggles and displaying hunting skills that bordered on sheer genius.  He was a marvelous dog, worthy of an unusual boy growing up a raw, untamed wilderness.

Au nom de Compostelle

Le Grand Roman de Flemmar

Clara Callan

Alice Munro (Early Canadian Poetry Series - Criticism & Biography)

À grandes gorgées de poussière

La quête d'Alexandre (Chroniques du Nouvel-Ontario, tome 1)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

duck-blind that the farmer had built for us. The silence seemed absolute and the cold had a rare intensity that knifed through my clothes and left me shivering at its touch. Wedged firmly between my knees, as we squatted behind the blind, Mutt also shivered, muttering gloomily the while about the foolishness of men and boys who would deliberately expose themselves and their dependents to such chill discomfort. I paid little heed to his complaints, for I was watching for the dawn. Shaken by

for my first shot at a goose could keep the blood flowing to my numb extremities. As for Mutt, he was soon beyond all feeling. We had found a sack for him to lie on, but it did him little good. He began to shiver extravagantly, and then to snuffle, and finally his teeth began to chatter. Father and I were surprised by this, for neither of us had ever heard a dog’s teeth chatter before. We had not thought that such a thing was possible. Nevertheless, all through that interminable wait Mutt’s teeth

hurricane of stiff and frantic wings. It was all over in less than a minute. The sky was clear above us and the silence had returned. Out on the slough eight ducks remained, and five of them were greenhead drakes. Mutt was almost tearing the leash from my hands as we left the blind. “Let him go,” my father said. “He can’t do any harm now. Let’s see what he makes of this.” I slipped the leash. Mutt went through the band of muck and sedge at the water’s edge like a kangaroo, in great ungainly

rather disheveled when he finally reached me. But he accepted my congratulations calmly. He took such things as this high-level retrieve quite for granted. Even the open sky offered no sure sanctuary from him, for I have seen him leap six or eight feet in the air to haul down a slow-starting and slightly wounded prairie chicken or Hungarian. As for the water – the wounded duck that thought water offered safety was mortally in ignorance. Mutt never became resigned to the oily taste of ducks, and

he snatched a piece of naphtha soap out of my hand and swallowed it, whether accidentally or not I do not know. He began frothing almost immediately, and we curtailed the bath and called the veterinary. The veterinary was a middle-aged and unimaginative man whose practice was largely limited to healing boils on horses and hard udders on cows. He refused to believe that Mutt had voluntarily swallowed soap, and he left in something of a huff. Mutt took advantage of the hullabaloo to vanish. He

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