Mopping Up #229437

There, immersed in swimming heat, I beheld a fellow-being tortured with more of discomfort than my own. He was not a human being. Life, on four furry legs, fawned up at me with lolling tongue. A beau= tiful coat he wore, this collie puppy of a year or thereabouts; a coat of dark sable hue and with White collar, a glorious ruli around his throat. But it was a coat which belonged not in the infernal heat of the tropics, but in northern snows. Sprawling upon the floor, he rose as I approached him. He looked up in my face and Whined. His eyes were filmy with heat; his throat was gasping; in the pathetic dumb language of the dog, man's best friend, he strove to acquaint me with his need — and I understood him.