"These aren't pigs!" he squealed. "You needn't think you can fool me. They're not pigs at all."
"Oh, yes—they are!" Spot insisted. "You didn't suppose that all the pigs in the world were exactly like your family—did you?"
Grunty didn't know what to say. He looked at the odd little creatures again. And then he looked at Spot once more.
"If these really are pigs," he faltered, "they must be very, very young. They're certainly smaller than any day-old pigs I ever saw.... Maybe their tails haven't sprouted yet."
Old dog Spot seemed to choke over something. He turned his head away for a moment or two before he spoke.
"These pigs," he said, "won't ever have tails. Not one of them would know what to do with a tail if you gave him one. They don't want tails. They have no use for them. And now that you see for yourself how happy they are without tails, you ought not to delay any longer about having yours cut off. I hope," Spot added, "I'll see your tail nailed up on the barn to-morrow, where everybody can admire it."
Then Grunty Pig said something that surprised him.
"Why don't you have your own tail cut off?" he asked old Spot.
And before old Spot could think of an answer, Johnnie Green came running out of the woodshed.
"Get away from my guinea pigs!" he shouted.