*Dead, alas, since this was written.

In this plight was he found by May, the most high-blooded and
aristocratic of greyhounds; and from this plight did May rescue
him;--invited him into her territory, the stable; resisted all
attempts to turn him out; reinstated him there, in spite of maid and
boy, and mistress and master; wore out everybody's opposition, by
the activity of her protection, and the pertinacity of her
self-will; made him sharer of her bed and of her mess; and, finally,
established him as one of the family as firmly as herself.

Dash--for he has even won himself a name amongst us, before he was
anonymous--Dash is a sort of a kind of a spaniel; at least there is
in his mongrel composition some sign of that beautiful race.
Besides his ugliness, which is of the worst sort--that is to say,
the shabbiest--he has a limp on one leg that gives a peculiar
one-sided awkwardness to his gait; but independently of his great
merit in being May's pet, he has other merits which serve to account
for that phenomenon--being, beyond all comparison, the most
faithful, attached, and affectionate animal that I have ever known;
and that is saying much. He seems to think it necessary to atone
for his ugliness by extra good conduct, and does so dance on his
lame leg, and so wag his scrubby tail, that it does any one who has
a taste for happiness good to look at him--so that he may now be
said to stand on his own footing. We are all rather ashamed of him
when strangers come in the way, and think it necessary to explain
that he is May's pet; but amongst ourselves, and those who are used
to his appearance, he has reached the point of favouritism in his
own person. I have, in common with wiser women, the feminine
weakness of loving whatever loves me--and, therefore, I like Dash.