namely, that no one else would.

I am an old dog now, and am writing, or rather getting a friend to
write, the story of my life. I have seen my mistress laughing and
crying over a little book that she says is a story of a horse's life,
and sometimes she puts the book down close to my nose to let me
see the pictures.

I love my dear mistress; I can say no more than that; I love her
better than any one else in the world; and I think it will please her
if I write the story of a dog's life. She loves dumb animals, and it
always grieves her to see them treated cruelly.

I have heard her say that if all the boys and girls in the world were
to rise up and say that there should be no more cruelty to animals,
they could put a stop to it. Perhaps it will help a little if I tell a
story. I am fond of boys and girls, and though I have seen many
cruel men and women, I have seen few cruel children. I think the
more stories there are written about dumb animals, the better it
will be for us.

In telling my story, I think I had better begin at the first and come
right on to the end. I was born in a stable on the outskirts of a
small town in Maine called Fairport. The first thing I remember
was lying close to my mother and being very snug and warm. The
next thing I remember was being always hungry. I had a number of
brothers and sisters six in all and my mother never had enough
milk for us. She was always half starved herself, so she could not
feed us properly.