I DARE not say that the bull-terrier, my hero, was pure bred. I am strongly disposed to think that he was mongrel—of the hardy, self-reliant, incorrigible type which some mongrel races assume, until their very mongrelness, like their ugliness, becomes almost respectable by its manly independence and stoical indifference.
He was not by any means a dog of fine feelings, though no doubt he had his weak side, which had nothing to do with the question of his personal appearance. He was a democrat to the backbone, with so little pretension to be what he was not, that if it had not been for a large stock of coarse stolidity, and of self-confidence amounting to impudence, a total incapacity to comprehend a higher range of character than he himself possessed, and a certain scurrilous tongue of his own, he would have been, in his unvarnished low life, still tolerably free from vulgarity.
If you will examine him narrowly, you will find clear indications of the qualities I have referred to in his general aspect. I do not say anything of the shortness of his ears, as I suspect they have been cropped, and he is certainly not accountable for an operation performed against his will. But remark and admire his small piggish eyes, the broad brevity of his nose, and the equal brevity of his tail, the width of his jowl, the thickness of his neck—even in his clumsy conformation, and the peculiar dogmatic obstinacy with which his substantial paws are turned inwards. I am afraid I cannot call him anything except a plain-looking dog, with no nonsense about him.
But he is not destitute of solid advantages, on which he justly piques himself, in that big body scarred with the traces of many a combat in which he has come off the victor.
He may be little to boast of where speed, agility, keenness of scent, quickness and sureness of sight, discipline, docility, and splendid sagacity are desired, but he has always his vigour and endurance to fall back upon, and they are a tower of strength in themselves.
That bullet-head and those close-shut jaws can thrust like a battering-ram and grip like a vice. His capacious chest and hind quarters, and his posts of legs, offer a great field of resistance, and are as hard to uproot as a stout young sapling. His hide is well-nigh as thick as that of a rhinoceros, and can stand a perfect hail-storm of blows without flinching. Many a rival dog he has throttled, many a man and boy he has threatened successfully to “pin.” His scowl and his growl are enough to repel all, save the boldest and most dauntless of assailants.
If he is not a dog of brilliant parts, he knows a thing or two where self-preservation is concerned. He is perfectly capable of looking after number one—the only number which he feels himself called upon to reckon; in fact, poor fellow, he has been accustomed to that reckoning, and to dwelling upon it with dull, degrading reiteration from his earliest years.
If you could ask himself, he would tell you decidedly that he has no relations, and he would imply with an inarticulate murmur, between a grunt and a growl, that the question is one of perfect indifference to him; he does not mind the privation in the least—he is sufficient for himself.
“He cares for nobody, no, not he,
If nobody cares for him.”