"How can a dog have three names?" I asked.

"He came to us one day without a name," said Great-grandfather. "My sister Lily called him Ted. Mama called him Boots because his front legs were white halfway up. Papa called him Pal because he was one."

Great-grandfather called him Three Names.

"That's four names," I told him, but he already knew that.

When Great-grandfather was young - a hundred years ago, he likes to say, but that's not true - he went to school on prairie roads in a wagon pulled by horses. His dog, Three Names, went with him through fields of prairie grass and wheat, paintbrush and bluegrass. In winter they rode to school on a sleigh before the sun rose, and Three Names slept on Great-grandfather's stocking feet. They hid together during spring's dark tornadoes, and in summer they lay side by side in the barn, dreaming the days away.