April, Saturday 2, 1864
Ever memorable and (to me ) sad day. I was awakened this morning by the pitious howl of poor Fosco—as I feared when Beulah left the room, they all killed seven sheep last night. Uncle Elum knocked Fosco in the head, Beulah ran to my room, thereby saving her life—Father sent for her, and then came for her—but oh! he knew not what he asked—to give my dog—my best friend—my Beulah, who had so often defended me in danger, my only protector in the dead hour of night—to drive her from my side, to be murdered. I would as soon thought of kneeling myself on the block, as to see my best friend. Father positively forbid my takeing her off—I hope God will forgive me for the disobedience, but I was obliged to do it. Mary Robinson and Joe Smith took her to Memphis in the buggy to Ed and Rhoda. I know they will love her—none of them sympathise or appreciate the sorrow it gave me to part with poor Beulah. Old Wright’s drunken son has been prowling all over the place tonight, shot Ben’s dog, Edmondson’s battery both white and black started after him, met him in the lane, he cocked his gun and flourished it—cowardly dog, sneaked off after that. Laura, Tip and I all alone, oh! my poor, poor Beulah, how can I do without you—