As he waited to speak to Sir Walter, Arnulf the police dog trotted by. He did not stop—just gave us a rapid wag of his tail.
Walter Scott gazed after him. “It fatigues me to watch him,” he said. “He’s never still.”
“No matter about that,” said Gringo, “he’s here to keep strangers off the place, and he does it. They used to be always poking about, when us other dogs ruled. We were too polite by a long way. We never drove strangers away, unless they were rampageous.”
Sir Walter smiled, and said, “I daresay you are right. I saw him the other day get in front of a woman who persisted in coming up through the open gates. She thought he looked kind, and began to tear ivy from the wall. Arnulf growled at her, but she went on. Then he took her skirt between his teeth, and tore it. She was in a rage, and started throwing some ivy in his face. He opened his mouth, and bellowed so angrily, that she hurried away, looking over her shoulder—Pardon me, I must keep my hens moving.”
“Come on,” said Gringo, “the sun will soon be going down.”
We went on, via the rock walk, and Gringo hung his head as we passed the place where the two men had lassoed me.
“Boy,” he said hoarsely, “do you see that spot there, all pressed down?”
I stuck my head in the alders, and saw a matted place in the grass quite free from snow.
“I always keep it clean,” he said. “I used to sit there when you were gone and think what a good dog you are, and what an old crosspatch I am.”