This is just like Clifford Simak's.

-Hello, - the dog replied, wagging his tail.
Grant sat up straight and gaped in surprise. The dog stood and laughed, hanging out his tongue with a red cloth. Grant jerked his thumb at the tree.
- Your squirrel is up there.
—Thank you,— the dog replied.
— I know. I can smell it.
Grant looked around quickly. A practical joke? Is someone dabbling in ventriloquism? However, he did not see anyone. The forest was empty except for himself, the dog, a bubbling stream and an excitedly clucking squirrel. The dog came closer.
-My name is Nathaniel,— he said.
You said it yourself. No doubt about it. Speech is almost like a human's, only he pronounces words very carefully, like a student of a foreign language. And an unusual pronunciation, some kind of elusive accent…
- I live over the mountain here,— Nathaniel said. — The Websters.
He sat down and tapped his tail on the dry leaves. His muzzle expressed complete bliss. Suddenly Grant snapped his fingers.
— Bruce Webster! Well of course. I didn't realize it right away. Nice to meet you, Nathaniel.
— And who are you? - Nathaniel asked.
— Me? Richard Grant, the counter.
— And what is an account... an account…
- The meter counts people,— Grant explained. — I'm doing a census.
- I don't know many words yet,- Nathaniel said.
He got up, went to the stream, hopped noisily, then sprawled on the ground next to the man.
— Will you shoot a squirrel? - he asked.
— Do you want that?
— Of course.
But the squirrel has already disappeared. They walked around the tree, meticulously examining the almost bare branches. No fluffy tail sticking out of the ball, no beady eyes fixed on them… While they were talking, the squirrel slipped away.

Clifford Simak. City.