That is how Trotsky came to us. Nobody but a reckless propagandist would say that he is either a mastiff or a boar-hound, though he once stopped when we came to a pig. I do not mind that. What I do mind is their saying, now that they have palmed him off on me, "I saw you out with your what-ever-it-is yesterday," or "I did not know you had taken to sheep-breeding," or "What is that thing you have tied up to the kennel at the back?" There seems to be something about the animal's tail that does not go with its back, or about its legs that does not go with its nose, or about its eyes that does not go with its fur. If it is fur, that is to say. And the eyes are a different colour and seem to squint a little. They say that one of them is a wall-eye. I think that is the one he watches the house with. Personally I consider that they are very handsome eyes in their own different lines, and my opinion is that he is a Mull-terrier; or possibly a Rum. Anyhow he is a good dog to get hold of, for he is very curly.
The village policeman came round to the house the other day. I think he really came to talk to the cook, but I fell into conversation with him.
"You ought to be getting a licence for that dog of yours," he said.
"What dog?" I asked.
"Why, you've got a dog tied up at the back there, haven't you?" he said.
"Have I?" said I.
And we went out and looked at it together. Trotsky looked at me with one eye and at the policeman with the other, and he wagged his tail. At least I am not sure that he wagged it; "shook" would be a better word.
"Where did you get it?" he inquired.
"Oh, I just got hold of it," I said airily. "It's rather good, don't you think?"
He stood for some time in doubt.