I have long been keeping something called a commonplace—that is, a scrapbook of quotes, proverbs, poems, and assorted vestiges of speech overheard on buses, sidewalks, and coffee houses. At present this commonplace book of mine amounts to thousands of pages, meticulously indexed for lack of anything better to do with such material. From time to time I leaf through it with satisfaction, as others might muse over their old trophies fixed above the mantel.
The collie exhibits similar behavior, though with an added grace. On each of our excursions into the woods, he will—at the inevitable moment when recognition strikes that we’re on our way home—pick up a stick and carry it all the way back to the house. Then he drops it next to the front door on a mounting heap from previous excursions, and leaves it at that. He doesn’t mind when—every once in a while—I remove his lumberyard of keepsakes back to the woods. It’s no bother to him. On the next excursion—and with no fuss—he simply begins gathering anew.