Old Cap, our eighty-five pound Redbone hound, was getting gray around the muzzle. Even so, twice a year he'd still raise his head, cast his nose skyward, and heave a sigh. Then he'd march himself half a mile up the farm road to do his duty by Bonney, our nearest neighbor's cute little Norwegian elkhound. The neighbors reported that Cap kept the other dogs away, ate no food, and courted Bonney valiantly for the week.

One year Dad took two of the litter, Dolly and Emily. Dad said that Dolly -- with her blond fur, extravagant facial markings, and tail like a plume -- reminded him of Carol Channing in "Hello, Dolly." On the other hand, little Emily -- the runt of the litter -- was subdued in color and thoughtful in personality and put Dad in mind of Emily Dickenson.

As Cap slowed with age, the two littermates became his agents. The three of them would go out back in the neighbor's pasture and dig for ground squirrels. With Cap and Emily watching, Dolly would dig for awhile, her tail like a banner. Then she'd come up for air and rest while Cap heaved himself up to check progress. After his snorting inspection, Emily would jump in and badger away. They seemed to have their system all worked out.

They were at work one day when a rabbit burst out of a nearby hole and Emily gave obligatory chase. The damnedest thing was how careful she was not to catch that rabbit. I'm told that on another day she did, and although she saw the game through to its conclusion, she acted embarrassed, as if she'd committed some unforgivable social blunder.

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One hot summer morning both my big brother Dave and I were home from our respective colleges. The folks had gone into town, and Dave and I were sleeping in, me upstairs and Dave on the first floor. He was awakened by Emily barking outside his open window. She just wouldn't quit, so he pulled on a pair of pants and went to the back door. Emily started making little dashes away from the house, stopping and looking back at him.

Pretty obvious, even to a human. So Dave followed Emily at a trot for a hundred yards across the neighbor's pasture to a big pile of old fencing, posts and wire, that provided a great place for things to live in and for the pups to root around in. But now it had Dolly by the collar in a death-grip by barbed wire. Dave worked her free, and all was well. (Later Dad took the collars off all the dogs, saying, What the hell do dogs need collars for in the country anyway?)

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The folks had a place in the woods on Horseshoe Lake north of Spokane. Among all the fishing we'd do Dave and I most enjoyed fishing the streams. Dolly and Emily would go with us on our rambles and somehow they knew that when we were fishing they were to stay out of the water. The lake was on the West Branch of the Little Spokane River, mostly a gentle, cut-bank stream that yielded more sport than trout.

That sultry summer afternoon was past fishing (at that point I was trying raisins from my lunch for bait). As we all worked our way downstream along the bank, we heard a commotion and looked upstream to see some kind of perching bird, maybe a young robin or thrush, splashing and struggling helplessly in the water.

As the easy current swept the bird toward us, Emily launched herself off the bank into the water. She swam out and scooped the bird up in her mouth, carried it onto the far bank, and laid it down in the grass. Then she nosed it gently, shook herself, and trotted off.

I like to think she was making up for that rabbit.