busy to keep count. About fifty-fifty
would be my guess. Anyway, it did Buddy a lot of good and must have been
fine practice. If he ever has to stop an offensive on the part of an
invadin' bull-dog he'll be in good trim. He'd tackle one, all right. The
book we bought says that an Airedale will go up a tree after a mountain
lion. I can believe it. I've never seen Buddy tuck his tail down for
anything on four legs. Yet he ain't the messy kind. He don't seem
anxious to start anything. But I'll bet he'd be a hard finisher.

And he sure is a folksy dog with the people he knows around the house.
Most of 'em he treats gentler than he does me, which shows that he's got
some sense. And when it comes to the baby; why, say, he'll gaze as
admirin' at young Master Richard toddlin' around as if he was some blood
relation; followin' him everywhere, with that black nose nuzzled under
one of the youngster's arms, or with a sleeve held tender in his teeth.
Any kid at all Buddy is strong for. He'll leave a bone or his play any
time he catches sight of one, and go prancin' around 'em, waggin' his
stubby tail friendly and inviting 'em to come have a romp.

Maybe you wouldn't accuse Buddy of being handsome. I used to think
Airedales was about the homeliest dogs on the list. Mostly, you know,
they're long on nose. It starts between their ears and extends straight
out for about a foot. Gives 'em kind of a simple expression. But you get
a good look into them brown eyes of Buddy's, 'specially when he's
listenin' to you with his head cocked on one side and an ear turned
wrong side out, and you'll decide he must have some gray matter
concealed somewhere. Then there's that black astrakan coat-effect on his
back, and the clean-cut lines of his deep chest and slim brown legs,
which are more or less decorative. Anyway he got so he looked kind of
good to me.

Like people, though, Buddy had his bad days. Every once in a while his
fondness for chewin' things would get him in wrong. Then he'd have to
be scolded. And you can't tell me he don't know the meanin' of the words
when you call him a "bad, bad dog." No, sir. Why, he'd drop his head and
tail and sneak into a corner as if he'd been struck with a whip. And
half an hour later he'd be up to the same sort of mischief. I asked Joe
Sarello about it.

"Ah!" says Joe, shruggin' his shoulders. "Hees puppy yet. Wanna do w'at
he lak, all tam. He know better, but he strong in the head. You gotta
beat him up