Would Little Wanderobo Dog, reclaimed from the swamp, harken to the call of the blood and join the band of his own kind?
If he did, we could only bow our heads in grief and submission, for after all were not we only foster friends and not blood relations?
But Little Wanderobo Dog never wavered in his allegiance to us.

He had planted his lance by our colors and with these he would stick till death.
He passed those other Wanderobo dogs as if they were creatures from another world.

If he felt tempted to join his fellow dogs, there was no indication of it, and at night when we reached our camp we found our faithful follower at his accustomed post, stanch, firm and true to his colors, which were black and tan.
But alas, there comes a time when the best of friends must part.

And the dark day came when I saw Little Wanderobo Dog for the last time.

It was at Escarpment.