If he'd let me, I'd like to pass the time of
day with every dog I meet. But there's something about me that no
nice dog can abide. When I trot up to nice dogs, nodding and
grinning, to make friends, they always tell me to be off. "Go to the
devil!" they bark at me; "Get out!" and when I walk away they shout
"mongrel," and "gutter-dog," and sometimes, after my back is turned,
they rush me. I could kill most of them with three shakes, breaking
the back-bone of the little ones, and squeezing the throat of the big
ones. But what's the good? They are nice dogs; that's why I try to
make up to them, and though it's not for them to say it, I am a
street-dog, and if I try to push into the company of my betters, I
suppose it's their right to teach me my place.
Of course, they don't know I'm the best fighting bull-terrier of my
weight in Montreal. That's why it wouldn't be right for me to take no
notice of what they shout. They don't know that if I once locked my
jaws on them I'd carry away whatever I touched. The night I fought
Kelley's White Rat, I wouldn't loosen up until the Master made a
noose in my leash and strangled me, and if the handlers hadn't thrown
red pepper down my nose, I never would have let go of that Ottawa
dog.
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