No superannuated mastiff or bulldog grown old
in office surpassed this fluffy midget in stoic dignity. He sometimes
reminded me of a small, squat, unshakable desert cactus. For he never
displayed a single trace of the merry, tricksy, elfish fun of the
terriers and collies that we all know, nor of their touching affection
and devotion. Like children, most small dogs beg to be loved and allowed
to love; but Stickeen seemed a very Diogenes, asking only to be let
alone: a true child of the wilderness, holding the even tenor of his
hidden life with the silence and serenity of nature. His strength of
character lay in his eyes. They looked as old as the hills, and as
young, and as wild. I never tired of looking into them: it was like
looking into a landscape; but they were small and rather deep-set, and
had no explaining lines around them to give out particulars. I was
accustomed to look into the faces of plants and animals, and I watched
the little sphinx more and more keenly as an interesting study. But
there is no estimating the wit and wisdom concealed and latent in our
lower fellow mortals until made manifest by profound experiences; for it
is through suffering that dogs as well as saints are developed and made
perfect.
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