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Rags by Karen Niemann

RAGS (The Story of a Dog)

By Karen Niemann

The Camas Press North Hollywood, California

DEDICATION to all the boys and girls who ran over the green hills of Edendale and to one old black shepherd dog "Beachy"

THE CAR stopped and a shaggy little dog named Rags was pushed into the street. Rags' owner was very angry.

"That's the last slipper of mine that you'll chew up!" he said, and sped away.

Rags stood in the street.

"So that was it," he thought. "But he had so many slippers in his closet, how was I to know he'd mind if I just chewed a few?"

The street was wide and empty and Rags was frightened. What was a small dog to do? What could he do? Of course ... he must find another home!

Suddenly Rags grew up. He would never again chew a slipper! Up on the sidewalk he scrambled, ready for adventure. He didn't feel sad at all now.

"Surely," he thought, "I can soon find a nice home."

He walked down the sidewalk looking at every house. In front of one was a lady watering her flowers. Rags walked up to her politely.

"Woof! Woof!" he said, and wagged his tail.

The lady turned.

"Oh, you dirty, ragged creature!" she cried, "Get off my lawn!" And with that, she turned the water upon him.

Rags ran. He didn't want a home in that lady's house--or in her neighborhood.

Cold and wet and frightened, he ran along the street. He was too tired to run any more, when he saw a man rocking on the porch of a very pretty house. Perhaps this man would give him a home. Rags stood still. Did he dare go up and ask him? Timidly, he crept up, stood very still, and wagged his tail.

The man looked over his glasses and said, "Well! Well!"

Rags looked up and said, "Woof!" which meant in dog language, "I need a home."

Rags didn't see the cat on the arm of the man's chair. He didn't know she was there until, arching her back, she sprang forward and landed on his face.

"Rrrow!" she screeched. Her claws were sharp. She was telling him, "This is my home! GO AWAY!"

Rags ran. "Yip-yip-yip-yip-yip," he cried. He ran and ran. The houses were smaller now, and not so close together. He saw some boxes on a vacant lot. He went over, crawled into one, and went to sleep.

The boxes belonged to a little boy named Gary. He was building a playhouse with them. And as soon as he had carried in the wood and swept the walks, he would call, "Grandma, everything's done! May I play in my box house now?"

"Yes, dear," said Grandma.

So Gary hurried to the vacant lot. He was proud of his box house. For days he had worked, dragging the boxes to this grassy spot and nailing them together. Carefully, he crawled inside.

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