Hoops Of Steel Comments

I'm the dog.
I spent my whole life hoboin' cross the country—with him along too, and he's always been willing to share a meal, even though sometimes we went hungry not knowing where our next feed was gonna come from riding the rails or camping in one of the jungles.
He's just a small feller, he's old, got holes worn in his clothes, is crooked, awkward, stiff in his getalong, stubborn as a mule, and has a comical face, and straw colored hair sticking out all over, and is a little hard to look at; but nobody's kinder than he is, and nobody's more loyal, excepting maybe me.
No, anyone who thinks that he ain't loyal to his friends ought to see him when he's down and out, scaring up a load of grub and sharing the first portion, and begging for a second serving, and sharing some of that too and filling his pockets with leftovers and biscuits just in case either of us would want a treat later.
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