“How do you know when you’re hot?” demanded the Rabbit, with a this-is-where-I-trip-you-up twinkle in his eye.
“Why, I get hot—I mean I get all sweaty and have to wipe my face and neck.”
“Exactly,” said the Rabbit. “You know when you’re hot because you sweat. But a dog doesn’t sweat and can’t sweat. There! What do you say to that?”
“If my dog Colonel were here,” said Buddie, “I’m sure he could tell me.”
“Couldn’t,” declared the Rabbit. “Told me so himself, many a time. Haven’t you noticed that on the hottest day a dog will race round and run after sticks and stones and go on like mad until he simply drops from exhaustion? Now, if he could tell when he was hot, as you can, he would stop long before he gave out. That sort of thing is very wearing on a dog. That’s why he doesn’t live longer.”
As Buddie had no suitable reply ready the Rabbit continued:
“No, Buddie—I believe you said your name was Buddie?” Buddie nodded. “It’s so like my own—Bunny. No, Buddie, there are some things about ourselves we can’t explain, just as there are some things that are perfectly clear. For instance, I know why I can not run very far in a straight line, but have to zigzag.”
“Do tell me!” cried Buddie, greatly interested.
“The reason is, my hindlegs are twice as long as my forelegs. After I run a little way my hindlegs overtake my forelegs, and if I were to keep on I should be going the other way, which would be extremely awkward, don’t you think?”
“I should think it would be,” murmured Buddie, to whom the explanation was by no means clear.