Narrator: Old Skip was 11, and feeble with arthritis, but he never lost that old devilish look in his eye. He made my room his own. Came across an old photo of him not long ago. His little face, with the long snout sniffing at something in the air. His tail was straight out, pointing. Eyes were flashing in some momentary excitement. He always loved to be rubbed on the back of his neck. And when I did it, he'd yawn and he'd stretch, reach out to me with his paws, as if he was trying to embrace me. I recieved a transatlantic call one day. "Skip died," Daddy said. He and my mama wrapped him in my baseball jacket. "They buried him out under our elm tree," they said. That wasn't totally true. For he really lay buried in my heart.
