ten from his pocket), and there's the dogs, and I shall have some
fowls next year, p'raps."

But my object in beginning this chapter was not to enter into a
disquisition on other people's pets, with which after all one can have
but a distant acquaintance, but to introduce some of my own especial
favourites to those kind and sympathetic readers who take pleasure in
hearing of my own somewhat solitary existence in that distant land. I
am quite ready to acknowledge that I never thoroughly comprehended the
individuality of animals, even of fowls and ducks, until I lived up at
the Station. Perhaps, like their masters, they really get to possess
more independence of character under those free and easy skies; for
where would you meet with such a worldly and selfish cat as "Sandy," or
so fastidious and intelligent a smooth terrier as "Rose"? Sandy was an
old bachelor of a sleek appearance, red in colour, but with a good deal
of white shirt-front and wristbands, as to the get-up of which he was
most particular. It was easy to imagine Sandy sitting in a club window;
and I am _sure_ he had a slight tendency to gout and reading French
novels. Sandy's selfishness was quite open and above-board. He liked
you very much until somebody else came whom he liked better, and then he
would desert his oldest friend without hesitation. I don't suppose the
wildest young colley-pup ever dreamed of chasing or worrying Sandy, who
would not have stirred from his warm corner by the fire for Snarleyow
himself. Every now and then Sandy must have felt alarmed about his
health or his figure, for he ate less, and walked gravely and sulkily
up and down the verandah for hours, but as soon as he considered himself
out of danger, he relapsed into all his self-indulgent ways. No one
ventured to offer Sandy anything but the choicest meats, and he was wont
to sit up and beg like a dog for a savoury tit-bit. But he would revenge
himself on you afterwards for the humiliation, you might be sure.

What always appeared to me so odd, was that in spite of his known and
unblushing selfishness, Sandy used to be a great favourite, and we all
vied with each other for the honour of his notice. Now why was this? If
boundless time and space were at our disposal, we might go deeply into
the question and work it out, but as the dimensions of this volume are
not elastic, the impending social essay shall be postponed, and we will
confine ourselves to a brief description of Sandy