Was it not rather a young fox she had seen?...
CHAPTER SEVEN
BOX
Box was a mixture of every possible race of dog.
His head was pointed, but his ears, nevertheless, long and drooping, resembling those of a Gordon setter. His short, thick, bulldog neck was joined to a retriever body, from beneath which shot out four long, thin greyhound legs, and behind which dangled a long, thin, mop-ended tail.
His eyes were wolf-like and shifty, and blinked treacherously when he looked at one. Any attempt to pat him was repulsed with a growl and an evil suspicious glance.
His coat was doubtful; but his mind was definite enough: quarrelsome, ferocious, and snappish—ready to attack anyone or anything upon the slightest provocation!
He had never been able to stand cats, a trait doubtless inherited from some aristocratic, sensitive-nosed ancestor.... From his very earliest days he had found it impossible to be on friendly terms with such musky beasts.
In addition he hated sheep, and loathed the odour of cows and the stink of swine; but however much his aristocratic instincts were offended, he was always conscious at the back of his mind of a certain agreeable, meaty smell about them. The cat’s scent, however, was sour and old; it smelled of mouse, which he despised from his birth.
Besides, they were always wanting to share his food with him—a habit to which he objected strongly. They thought him asleep when—as occasionally happened—he dozed over a bone at noon outside his kennel; but he was wide awake enough, and knew exactly what their game was!