Murph was a poodle by breed, and you might have searched long before you
found a bigger or better-built one. Standing well on his legs, with a
good, strong, supple back of his own, he carried his head high, as a
self-respecting poodle should. I mean, of course, in the days when Murph
was still young, for since age had crept on him, it _would_ droop more
or less; but even so, there was something proud and dignified about its
carriage that always attracted attention. He walked slowly and sedately,
as if intent on the solution of an ever-insoluble problem. His thick,
curly fleece clothed his neck like a mane, while a stout pair of long
drooping moustaches gave him the look of an old cavalry officer; his
skin was smooth and polished where the coat had been cut very close; he
wore heavy ruffles round his ankles, and his tail ended in a woolly
tuft.
Thus accoutred, Murph was a fine-looking dog; the curs of low degree
that came prowling round the van, and caught a glimpse of him through
the crack of the door, gazed at him with admiration. He had the majestic
port of beings destined to greatness; it was easy to see he might have
been a diplomatist, or a great general, if nature, in fashioning his
lot, had not chosen rather to give him the shape of a poodle; nor was
Murph slow to appreciate and enjoy the impression he produced.
Fine fellow as he was, he was not altogether free from vanity; the
humblest animal with which Murph compared himself was the lion; he had
seen one once in a travelling menagerie, and been struck by his own
likeness to the king of beasts. Why, had he not, like the lion, a mane
about his neck, a tuft to his tail, and bracelets of hair about his
ankles? Had he not likewise his Olympian look and superb carriage? By
dint of a little imagination, Murph had come to believe the lion a
degenerated type of poodle dog.
But let us pass lightly over his foibles; every one has his little
weaknesses. Time, moreover, that damps the foolish ardour of mankind and
dogkind, had tamed our friend’s ambitions. He was by now as
contemplative and calm as some wise philosopher satiated with the
glories of this world. More often on his back than on his feet, he would
watch the younger dogs, his juniors in the profession, capering and
giving themselves the airs of a drum-major heading his regiment, without
any other feeling towards them but one of kindly indulgence; and if any
one else was disposed to rebuke them, he would shake his head, as much
as to say, “There, there, we have all of us done the like in our day!”