Up to date, however, his garden was still more or less of a mess, he hadn't even started his workshop and if there was a meadow pond in the neighborhood he hadn't found it.

It wasn't his fault that these things were so. The difficulty was that each day seemed to produce its quota of details which must be cleaned up immediately.

As a result, life had become a kind of continuous make-ready. Once he disposed of these items which screamed so harshly for attention, he could undertake the things which really counted. Then, at last, his day would fall into an ordered pattern and he would be free to read, or garden or just wander through the woods in the late afternoon, accompanied by his dogs.

His dogs? He had almost forgotten them, although they had played such an important part in his early dreams. Then they had always been romping around him on these walks, yelping with delight, dashing off into the bushes on fruitless hunting expeditions, returning to jump up on him triumphantly with muddy paws. Dogs did something to one's ego. They were constantly assuring you that you were one of the world's great guys. Regardless of how much of a slob you knew yourself to be, you could be certain they would never find out -- and even if they did it would make no difference.

Now it became increasingly apparent that there were to be no dogs in the picture. What in the world were you going to do with a lot of dogs when you left for town on Monday afternoons? You certainly couldn't take them into the little apartment and if you tried to farm them out for two or three days every week they would become so confused that they would have nervous breakdowns. Why in the world couldn't he live in one place the way everyone else seemed to?