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     huge sled on metal runners.            “Who is that dog?” I asked.            “That dog,” my dad said,  “was named Bud.  He was     a Great Dane.”             “What made him so great?”            My dad smiled.  “That’s just the type of dog he was.”            “Who is the boy?”            “The boy is me,” my dad answered, beaming with the     pride that comes from owning a fine animal.            I began to get excited.  My dad had a mysterious past     that I didn’t know about.  “You had a dog?”            My dad got a strange look in his eye as he answered.     “When I was just a boy, one of my assignments was to go     down the road to the neighbor’s house and exchange eggs     for milk.  In the winter I would hitch Bud to the sleigh, and     he would pull me down and back.  In the summer, I had a     big wagon I used.  One day, a rabbit crossed our path on     the way to get milk, and Bud chased it, pulling me through     ditches and into trees.  I was hurt, and the wagon was     broken.  After that, my father got rid of Bud.”            As my dad told it, I could tell it had been a hard     moment for him, and that it probably wasn’t a good time to     ask for a dog again.  In fact, I wondered if I could ever ask     for a dog again.            However, a few days later, my dad came home and     announced that the whole family was going for a drive.     “Where are we going?” everyone asked excitedly.            “Crazy!” my dad replied.  “We’re all just going     crazy!”  That is Dad’s way of telling us not to ask any more     questions.             We all pushed and shoved our way into our old     station wagon.  There were eight of us kids.  John was
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