...Sometimes I dream that everything in the world is here, in my room, in a great closet, named and orderly, and I am here too, in front of it, hardly able to see for the flash and the brightness- and sometimes I am that madcap person clapping my hands and singing; and sometimes I am that quiet person down on my knees.

And it is exceedingly short, his galloping life. Dogs die so soon. I have my stories of that grief, no doubt many of you do also. It is almost a failure of will, a failure of love, to let them grow old-or so it feels. We would do anything to keep them with us, and to keep them young. The one gift we cannot give.

You must not ever stop being whimsical.

I saw that worrying had come to nothing and gave it up. And took my old body and went out into the morning, and sang.

A dog is adorable and noble, a dog is a true and loving friend. A dog is also a hedonist.

It's morning, and again I am that lucky person who is in it.

I was hurrying through my own soul . . . I was leaning out . . . I was listening.