two months old. But say, what
I didn't know about Airedale pups was a heap. Grow! Honest, you could
almost watch him lengthen out and fill in. Yet for a couple of weeks
there he was no more'n a kitten, and just as cute and playful. Every
night after dinner I'd spend about an hour rollin' him over on his back
and lettin' him bite away at my bare hand. He liked to get hold of my
trouser leg, or Vee's dress, or the couch cover, or anything else that
was handy, and tug away and growl. Reg'lar circus to see him.

And then I begun to find scratches on my hands. The little rascal was
gettin' a full set of puppy teeth. Sharp as needles, too. I noticed a
few threads pulled out of my sleeve. And once when he got a good grip on
Vee's skirt he made a rip three inches long. But he was so cunnin' about
it we only laughed.

"You young rough houser!" I'd say, and push him over. He'd come right
back for more, though, until he was tuckered and then he'd stretch out
on something soft and sleep with one paw over his nose while we watched
admirin'.

We had quite a time findin' a name for him. I got Joe to give his
pedigree all written out and we was tryin' to dope out from that
something that would sound real Scotch. Vee got some kennel catalogues,
too, and read over some of those old Ian MacLaren stories for names, but
we couldn't hit on one that just suited. Meanwhile I begins callin' him
Buddy, as the boys did everybody in the army, and finally Vee insists
that it's exactly the name for him.

"He's so rough and ready," says she.

"He's rough, all right," says I, examinin' a new tooth mark on the back
of my hand.

And he kept on gettin' rougher. What he really needed, I expect, was a
couple of cub bears to exercise his teeth and paws on; good, husky,
tough-skinned ones, at that. Not havin' 'em he took it out on us. Oh,
yes. Not that he was to blame, exactly. We'd started him that way, and
he seemed to like the taste of me 'specially.

"They're one-man dogs, you know," says Vee.

"Meanin'," says I, "that they like to chew one man at a time. See my
right wrist. Looks like I'd shoved it through a pane of glass. Hey, you
tarrier! Lay off me for a minute, will you? For the love of soup eat
something else. Here's a slipper. Now go to it."

And you should see him shake and worry that around the room. Almost as
good as a vaudeville act--until I discovers that he's gnawed a hole
clear through the toe. "Gosh!" says I. "My favorite slipp