“His dog? Sure I knew him. Frank, his name was. Always tearin’ up my lawn and chasin’ moths through my pansy beds ― though don’t go thinkin’,” the fat woman added hastily, “that I had anything to do with poisonin’ Frank, because I just can’t abide people who do things like that to animals, even the destroyin’ kind. Henderson was all broke up about it.”
“What kind of dog was Frank?” Ellery asked.
“Kind?”
“Breed.”
“Well... he wasn’t very big. Nor so little, neither, when you stop to think of it―”
“You don’t know his breed?”
“I think some kind of a hunting dog. Are you from the Humane Society or the Anti-Vivisection League? I’m against experimentin’ with animals myself, like the Examiner’s always sayin’. If the good Lord―”
“You can’t tell me, Madam, what kind of hunting dog Frank was?”
“Well...”
“English setter? Irish? Gordon? Llewellyn? Chesapeake? Weimaraner?”