Joey was deplorably lean and puny, and his hair, which should have stood out till Joey appeared three times the size he was, his hair, what hair he had, lay straight and limp along his little back. Rose passed her hand over him the wrong way.
"You should always brush a Pom the wrong way, sir. It brings the hair on."
"I'm afraid, Rose, you've worn his hair away with stroking it."
"Oh no, sir. That's the peculiarity of Joey's breed. Joey's my dog, sir."
"So I see."
He saw it all. Joey was an indubitable mongrel, but he was Rose's dog, and she loved him, therefore Joey's fault, his hairlessness, had become the peculiarity, not to say the superiority, of Joey's breed.
She read his thoughts.
"We're taking great pains to bring it on before the tenth."
"The tenth?"
"The Dog Show, sir."