I could figure out how mother might be able not to see anything but good in Buddy.
Just about then, though, Buddy seemed to have got a bulletin over a special wire.
He was an Irish buddy tae, but there were severals converted.
You know, buddy, somebody ought to teach guys like you a lesson.
It wasn't fair to kick your buddy in the face or get on his ear.
Her theory was good, only Buddy didn't care to gnaw his bone on an evening edition.
No doubt about Buddy's being glad to see me on them occasions.
Anyway, it did Buddy a lot of good and must have been fine practice.
So Buddy gets off by being informed stern that he'd a bad, bad dog.
Any kind of a fox, deceased or otherwise, is fair game for Buddy.