The Traveler and His Dog

Early one morning a traveler was about to set out upon a journey. The stones in the yard were still wet with dew, and mist lay over the road beyond the gate. He threw his cloak over his shoulder, placed his bundle near the door, and kept saying, “It is late. We must be off.”

His dog stood at the threshold, stretching his forelegs and opening his mouth in a great yawn. He was not lingering out of laziness. He had been waiting there for some time, ears turned toward the road and tail gently moving, ready to follow wherever his master went.

The traveler saw the yawn and frowned. “Why do you stand there gaping?” he cried. “Everything is ready except you. Come along at once.” He spoke sharply, but he did not look down at the loose knot of his bundle or the water-skin not yet fastened at his side.

The dog wagged his tail and answered, “O master, I am quite ready. It is you for whom I am waiting.”

At that, the traveler looked about him and saw the truth. His words had been quicker than his preparations. He tied his bundle properly, secured what he had forgotten, and only then stepped onto the road with the dog beside him.

The journey was still long, but the traveler carried a quieter lesson with him. Those who are slow themselves often find it easiest to blame a readier friend.