"You don't want to die?"
"No, I want to live. I like the Talkers and the feeding is good."
"Well, if you want to live," I said, "hold up your head and look cheerful. I'd shoot you on sight if you were my dog. You've such a disagreeable air."
He didn't care anything about my opinion. He was a very selfish old dog, but he snapped at my suggestion.
"Do you think it would make a difference?" he said eagerly.
"Don't I just! Toss up your head now, pretend you're a pup, and gambol down the road. Come on, I'll go with you."
He made a desperate little break for a few paces, then he stopped short. "My breath's gone."
"What's the matter with you?" I asked. "You haven't any wind at all. Don't you exercise every day?"
"No. I lie mostly by the fire. I'm old, I tell you."
"Oh! get out, old dog," I replied, "you only think you're old. Let me see your teeth."