No one who was at Clark’s house that Sunday afternoon when his pet chow was run over will ever forget the misery he suffered when the dog dragged himself in from the road. Clark heard his whimpering, and found him, bleeding and torn, at the back steps. There he sat with the dog in his arms, rocking it back and forth; the shouts and laughter in the front part of the house unheeded. They [his guests] saw that his sadness was not “show,” not synthetic, that the man was really as close to tears as a strong man can be. They left him then, straggled away; there was no more spirit for gaiety; the party was over; and all that was left was a man with his dog dying in his arms. Clark held him close until the life was gone.