Mary is my pet dog. It is a little furry girl brought up by me from the time when she was only one month old. Since then, she is my pet. She knows and loves me more than anyone else in our family.
Whenever I sit down with my breakfast, she will come near me, and say mildly in her usual tone, ‘ghou’, and I shall have to offer her a piece of bread in a saucer, which is always used for her food. It is not perhaps that she is hungry, but it is mainly for my company that she wants to enjoy at that hour. When I study in my bedroom, she waits on the floor near my feet, coiling her soft body in a short space, gazing affectionately at me.
Once I fell sick for a couple of days, after I returned home from the school with fever. My mother made me lie down on the bed, and went to the living room to ring up the doctor. Mary understood that I was not well. She came near my bed, and tried to smell about me something with a dog’s instinct or sensitiveness, and perhaps made out that I was sick.
Since that time, she never left my room, and stayed day and night by my sick-bed, giving me her silent and affectionate company. When I came round, Mary was found to move her tail in joy, jumping on my lap in a playful manner.
At night, Mary sleeps in my room on a small carpet. She dines with me in her porcelain plate, only when her food is offered to her with care, as is generally done in our case. Mary is really one of the members of our family. She expects the same treatment as myself and my brother deserve from our parents.