Among other things that I learned, during my soldier experience, was one, that trouble is often brewing when we feel the safest. Now it was about to overtake me and my dog. I was showing off Muddy’s accomplishments one day to some dog admirers, when an officer came up and inquired: “Whose dog is that?” “He is mine!” I proudly replied, “isn’t he a dandy, Mister?” “You must address officers by their title, he said stiffly, and salute them.” I had been so engaged, that I had not observed before, that he was an officer. I at once stood at attention and saluted. He glanced at me seemingly through and through and then, as though satisfied, said, returning the salute, “About that dog--just keep him out of sight and there will be no trouble;” and then as Muddy came fawning on him, patted him and passed on. “That,” said one of the men, “is a West Pointer. He is as full of rules and orders as a book on tactics.” “I guess he likes a dog, himself,” said Sergeant Bill, “or he would have ordered you to put him out of camp; for he is one of them highbrow officers that live by rule. Them West Pointers are a bundle of rules and regulations and eat blue books and general orders and such things instead of grub.” It was shortly after the foregoing incident, that an order appeared in substance, as follows: “After the 10th inst. all dogs, not licensed, will not be allowed in barracks, squad rooms, or mess halls.” But as Muddy had a home license and wore a collar showing it, I was not concerned until, shortly after, there appeared the following: “After this date, all dogs, whether licensed or not, will be turned over to the camp police.” To which some wag had added, “and thereafter will be included among the missing.” This was thought to be “rough” on those who had adopted dogs as mascots, and there were several companies that had, but as the mess sergeant said: “What can we do about it?” I had been on guard at post one, in front of the commandant’s office, and in my distress, at the thought of losing my dog, determined on the hazardous expedient of interviewing the commandant, to get permission to keep Muddy. So, brushing up my uniform and looking my neatest, I went to the office of that dread personage. I passed the guard, got into the office, and when the commandant had turned from his desk where he was engaged in writing, I stood at attention and saluted. Then I saw that it was the same officer I have before mentioned as being a West Point man, but whom I did not know was the commandant. “State your errand briefly,” he said coldly. I was nervously stating my errand when in rushed Muddy, as though to argue his own case. I picked him up for fear of what further damage he might do, and as a matter of habit with me, held in my arms. “What is your name?” he inquired in a tone of severity that boded ill for my request.