Johnson was a fat
black and white dog, who was obliged to keep his tongue out of his
mouth to pant during the greater part of his days. He had fits of
meditation, when Boswell galloped all over him without provoking a
snap. Johnson was, indeed, a most amiable fellow, and had gained a
reputation as a good watch dog, because on light nights he barked the
shining hours away.
Boswell was a little short-legged dog, built like a clumsy weasel;
for his body was so long it seemed to plead for six legs instead of
four, to support it, and no one could blame his back for swaying a
little in the middle. Boswell was a brindled dog. He had yellow spots
like pumpkin seeds over his eyes. His affection for Johnson was
extreme. He looked up to Johnson. If he startled a bird at the
roadside, or scratched at the roots of a tree after his imagination,
he came back to Johnson for approval, wagging his tail until it made
his whole body undulate. Johnson sometimes condescended to rub a nose
against his silly head, and this threw him into such fire of delight
that he was obliged to get out of the wagon-track, and bark around
himself in a circle until the carriage left him behind. Then he came
up to Johnson again, and panted along beside him, with a smile as
open and constant as sunshine.
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