No comment followed. They returned to camp, and I reflected a while. The commander said:
“I fear you are disappointed.”
“Yes,” I said; “they are too monotonous, too singsong, to dead-and-alive; they have no expression, no elocution. It isn't natural; it could never happen in real life. A person who had just acquired a dog is either blame' glad or blame' sorry. He is not on the fence. I never saw a case. What the nation do you suppose is the matter with these people?”
He thought maybe the trouble was with the dog. He said:
“These are contadini, you know, and they have a prejudice against dogs—that is, against marimane. Marimana dogs stand guard over people's vines and olives, you know, and are very savage, and thereby a grief and an inconvenience to persons who want other people's things at night. In my judgment they have taken this dog for a marimana, and have soured on him.”
I saw that the dog was a mistake, and not functionable: we must try something else; something, if possible, that could evoke sentiment, interest, feeling.
“What is cat, in Italian?” I asked.
“Gatto.”
“Is it a gentleman cat, or a lady?”
“Gentleman cat.”