Good night.

My neighbors had a dog called Good Night.
He wasn’t Good Night in this sense, though.
He was Good Night with the sense of Good Grief.
In this sense the stress is usually on the Night part.
With Good Night, the dog, sometimes it was on the “Good” – sometimes on both. If you said it like Good Grief, you get pretty equally weighted long sounds on each syllable.
Good Night was a sweet country dog.
Black coat, I think it was. Sweet but mischievous disposition.
He ranged the dirt roads and fields of Wheeler’s Cove – fierce and playful companion for the two boys of the family.
I was mostly afraid of dogs at that point in my life but I somehow have some affection for Good Night in my memory. He must have had a lot going for him to be remembered so.
My Granddad’s dogs do not fare so well in my memory – nor do any of my own.

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