The Dog with the Yellow Heart Quotes

“So, are you lost or not?” The dog hesitated, then nodded and gave a pathetic whimper. “You poor thing,” said Lotta with a sigh. “I know what it’s like when you’re lost. There you are, all alone, afraid, cold, hungry. And at night when it gets dark in the woods you start to cry. That’s when the ghosts come out screaming and rustling and rattling and haunting.” “How do you know all that?” asked the dog. “That’s what the carrier pigeon told me last year,” replied Lotta. “She got lost and forgot where she belonged. Getting lost is just like getting lost.” The dog nodded.

“I asked you what you were doing,” said Lotta. The dog sat down in the grass and began to lick his front right paw. He wrinkled up his nose and cleaned especially carefully between his toes, which were crusted with lumps of thick dry earth. He behaved as though he hadn’t heard a thing.

They’re sitting in Grandpa’s shed – a stray dog and the two children, Prince Neumann and Lotta. The dog is telling a story, because he knows he’ll be rewarded with crispy chicken skin and a warm corner of the shed to sleep. The dog is telling the story of G. Odd, the great inventor, in whose garden he used to live.

Would you like a piece?” asked Lotta. The dog could hardly believe it. He nodded. Before Lotta could take a third bite of her piece of the cake, the dog had eaten his up. The dog licked the crumbs that had fallen onto the ground. “You’re not from here, are you?” “No,” said the dog, “I’m not from here.”

He behaved as though he hadn’t heard a thing. Lotta shook her head angrily. “Are you deaf?” “No,” said the dog, and went on licking his feet. “You only talk when you feel like it then?” “Yes,” said the dog, “only when I feel like it.” “What a pity,” said Lotta. The dog raised his head and looked at her. The sun was dazzling. He saw that Lotta was taking something out of a big, red, cloth bag. It was a package. A square-shaped package. It was wrapped up in brown paper. Lotta opened it.

The dog licked the crumbs that had fallen onto the ground. “You’re not from here, are you?” “No,” said the dog, “I’m not from here.” “Where do you come from, then?” “From far away,” said the dog. “Are you lost?” The dog thought carefully. There was probably a lot more cake back where she came from. And there were probably all the other tasty things he had dreamed of in windy barns on his travels: crispy chicken skin, bread with liver pâté, cream pudding and milk rice.

“So, are you lost or not?” The dog hesitated, then nodded and gave a pathetic whimper. “You poor thing,” said Lotta with a sigh. “I know what it’s like when you’re lost. There you are, all alone, afraid, cold, hungry. And at night when it gets dark in the woods you start to cry. That’s when the ghosts come out screaming and rustling and rattling and haunting.” “How do you know all that?” asked the dog. “That’s what the carrier pigeon told me last year,” replied Lotta. “She got lost and forgot where she belonged. Getting lost is just like getting lost.” The dog nodded.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Brendon and I come from Hungary. An old sheepdog breed. My brothers are called Bela, Bratko and Bence. I’ve lost touch with them. That’s what happens to us dogs: We lose touch after just a few weeks, we’re split up, get a new home, new masters, new surroundings, new smells. It is not easy for us, this adjusting, but after all we’re clever, we learn to adapt and if all goes well, we soon occupy the best places in the new house. That’s what matters. You have to take the best places if you want a good life.

“What are you doing over there?” asked the dog. “Collecting feathers,” said Lotta. She turned around. “And what are you doing?” The dog squinted in the sun. It was early in the morning. The sun’s rays were slanted and did not give off much warmth. The dog was small and black and thin and very dirty.

Lotta opened it. “What have you got there?” asked the dog. “Almond cake,” said Lotta, biting off a large piece. The dog licked his lips. He could smell the almonds and the sugar and the eggs and the milk. He couldn’t remember the last time he had sat next to such a large piece of almond cake. Lotta chewed, swallowed and took another bite. The dog swallowed too. He wondered if he would be quick enough. He would jump up at the girl, she would drop the cake, and then he would grab the cake and run. Three seconds, thought the dog, maybe four.

The dog is telling the story of G. Odd, the great inventor, in whose garden he used to live. And about Lobkowitz, G. Odd’s closest friend. »Nothing is impossible« was his motto, and G. Odd never tired of creating the world. But then the two of them fought and G. Odd threw Lobkowitz out of his garden even though they’d been the best of friends. Clearly Lotta and Prince Neumann have to take action …