In plain words
She did not like to walk where others had walked. So she had brought four wooden planks along with her. Stepping on these, she came to the Mandir. She had Swami's darśan and was overjoyed. After the meal the driver had to go to the car. By then it had grown dark. There were no electric lights on the way. So I sent Jack along to help the driver. That night it rained heavily. The driver shut the doors and slept in the car. Jack lay down under the car. At daybreak, after getting up, the driver started the car and drove it a little way forward. Jack fell under its tyre and its back was broken. Then, unable to bear the pain, it set off for the Mandir, crying. It came dragging its body through the sand of the Citrāvatī, howling. At the Mandir gate there was a ‘watchman’ called Chakali Subbanna. He came in: “Swami, our Jack's back is broken. It is coming, crying,” he said. By the time I reached the gate, it fell at my feet and gave up its life. From the day Jack died, Jill gave up eating. In a few days it too was gone. I had the two of them buried behind the Old Mandir and built a brindāvanam there. In this way Ramesh and Suresh, who had done such tapas to be with Swami, were born as dogs after they died, stayed right beside me, and in the end merged in me.
In my childhood I used to write fine songs, have the children sing them, and give joy to the villagers. One day a political leader called Narayana Reddy came from Bukkapatnam: “Bābū! I hear you write good poetry. If you write some good poetry on our heroes, we will put it in the paper,” he said. They arranged a meeting. Then on the stage I put a rubber doll in a cradle and, rocking it, made up a song like this and sang it: