no goings on with the females, hitting below the belt.
So howandever, as I was saying, the old dog seeing the tin was empty starts mousing around by Joe and me. I’d train him by kindness, so I would, if he was my dog. Give him a rousing fine kick now and again where it wouldn’t blind him.
―Afraid he’ll bite you? says the citizen, sneering.
―No, says I. But he might take my leg for a lampost.
So he calls the old dog over.
―What’s on you, Garry? says he.
Then he starts hauling and mauling and talking to him in Irish and the old towser growling, letting on to answer, like a duet in the opera.
Such growling you never heard as they let off between them. Someone that has nothing better to do ought to write a letter pro bono publico to the papers about the muzzling order for a dog the like of that.
Growling and grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth is in it and the hydrophobia dropping out of his jsws.
All those who are interested in the spread of human culture among the lower animals (and their name is legion) should make a point of not missing the really marvellous exhibition of cynanthropy given by the famous old Irish red wolfdog setter formerly known by the sobriquet of Garryowen and recently rechristened by his large circle of friends and acquaintances Owen Garry.
The exhibition, which is the result of years of training by kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietary system, comprises, among other