Authors Note: I wrote this before I finished reading The Hound of the
Baskervilles, and I didn't know how it really ended. This is just another
version.
A new home
My childhood was always very strange. My father had left soon after we were born, and I did not remember him. My mother, a purebred Golden retriever, said that it might have been well for us not to have known him, for he was a rough sort, but I wished that I could meet him. Most of my brothers and sisters were mixtures of golden fur and black fur, my father's apparent shade. But I was a pure golden retriever, making my mother say that I had her body and my father's personality. But I failed to believe that, because from what I'd heard, Father could be cruel and scary. I was sweet and good. Everybody said so.
My mother had planned tests for us since we were born that would tell her what sort of job we would have as we grew up. She found jobs for the eldest and middle siblings, but my youngest brother and I proved to be tough to decide upon, so my mother stated that we should remain with her, which suited us fine. I will not go into the formalities of the tests, but I will mention one event that was very important to my life some time later.
My mother was testing us to see if we could be trustworthy. She left our eldest brother alone with our food, while the rest of us were playing in the garden. When we returned, thirsty and starved, it was to discover that our brother had eaten our food. My other siblings were all yapping furiously, and I climbed upon a rock and set my voice louder than all the others, for I was starved and very angry with my brother. My sister told me later that my eyes had been glowing as I had screamed. But she dismissed it as the sun hitting my eyes and I thought no more of it.
Anyway, my youngest brother, Charles, and I were planning to live with our mother for the rest of our days. That is, until the newspaper ad attracted our master's attention. It went like this: Dog needed to track down criminals. Must have a good sense of smell and a
fast speed. Ten pounds to the owner. Contact S. Holmes.
Of course my master was excited. Giving a dog to Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective! We dogs were no less excited. To serve the famous Sherlock Holmes was a great honor. My master decided that I should be the first to try. I was bathed, groomed and taken extra special care of until the next morning, when I was walked to the home of the detective.
I was tested continuously. I was timed for speed, tracking, and catching of objects. After three hours, Holmes was satisfied, paid my master ten pounds, and requested that all my things be transferred to his home tomorrow.
Of course I was thrilled. But I missed the chance to say goodbye to my family. My mother was prepared for this, however, for among the materials that were brought the next day was a small bag. In it was things that my siblings had contributed. Each had signed the object with a scratch of the claw. Most of the items were ordinary: a ball, a towel, a brush. But two things were different. An old red collar with the distinctive slash of my mother, and a license tag with a claw that I did not know. I realized that it must be my fathers. I just looked at the tag. The only link to my father was in my paw.
***
I lived a happy life at Baker Street. More than once was my tracking put into use by the detective. But there was one mystery that I could not solve, and that was where Dr. Watson was. I had heard of Holmes' companion, but I had never seen him, and I wondered where he had gotten to. My question was answered when a letter came from some place named Baskerville Hall. Watson was there protecting a man from some curse. I was not interested until one day when Holmes got it into his head to go there. He packed, grabbed my leash, and dragged me to a train, where we traveled to Baskerville Hall. I say 'dragged' because I did not want to go at all. I thought that we were going to some dismal place where I would just rot in sheer boredom. Little did I know what awaited me there.
A new home
My childhood was always very strange. My father had left soon after we were born, and I did not remember him. My mother, a purebred Golden retriever, said that it might have been well for us not to have known him, for he was a rough sort, but I wished that I could meet him. Most of my brothers and sisters were mixtures of golden fur and black fur, my father's apparent shade. But I was a pure golden retriever, making my mother say that I had her body and my father's personality. But I failed to believe that, because from what I'd heard, Father could be cruel and scary. I was sweet and good. Everybody said so.
My mother had planned tests for us since we were born that would tell her what sort of job we would have as we grew up. She found jobs for the eldest and middle siblings, but my youngest brother and I proved to be tough to decide upon, so my mother stated that we should remain with her, which suited us fine. I will not go into the formalities of the tests, but I will mention one event that was very important to my life some time later.
My mother was testing us to see if we could be trustworthy. She left our eldest brother alone with our food, while the rest of us were playing in the garden. When we returned, thirsty and starved, it was to discover that our brother had eaten our food. My other siblings were all yapping furiously, and I climbed upon a rock and set my voice louder than all the others, for I was starved and very angry with my brother. My sister told me later that my eyes had been glowing as I had screamed. But she dismissed it as the sun hitting my eyes and I thought no more of it.
Anyway, my youngest brother, Charles, and I were planning to live with our mother for the rest of our days. That is, until the newspaper ad attracted our master's attention. It went like this: Dog needed to track down criminals. Must have a good sense of smell and a
fast speed. Ten pounds to the owner. Contact S. Holmes.
Of course my master was excited. Giving a dog to Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective! We dogs were no less excited. To serve the famous Sherlock Holmes was a great honor. My master decided that I should be the first to try. I was bathed, groomed and taken extra special care of until the next morning, when I was walked to the home of the detective.
I was tested continuously. I was timed for speed, tracking, and catching of objects. After three hours, Holmes was satisfied, paid my master ten pounds, and requested that all my things be transferred to his home tomorrow.
Of course I was thrilled. But I missed the chance to say goodbye to my family. My mother was prepared for this, however, for among the materials that were brought the next day was a small bag. In it was things that my siblings had contributed. Each had signed the object with a scratch of the claw. Most of the items were ordinary: a ball, a towel, a brush. But two things were different. An old red collar with the distinctive slash of my mother, and a license tag with a claw that I did not know. I realized that it must be my fathers. I just looked at the tag. The only link to my father was in my paw.
***
I lived a happy life at Baker Street. More than once was my tracking put into use by the detective. But there was one mystery that I could not solve, and that was where Dr. Watson was. I had heard of Holmes' companion, but I had never seen him, and I wondered where he had gotten to. My question was answered when a letter came from some place named Baskerville Hall. Watson was there protecting a man from some curse. I was not interested until one day when Holmes got it into his head to go there. He packed, grabbed my leash, and dragged me to a train, where we traveled to Baskerville Hall. I say 'dragged' because I did not want to go at all. I thought that we were going to some dismal place where I would just rot in sheer boredom. Little did I know what awaited me there.