Its nose is a delicate red, with spots.

Its head is painfully erect, its expression is amiability carried to verge of imbecility.

I do not admire it myself.
Considered as a work of art, I may say it irritates me.

Thoughtless friends jeer at it, and even my landlady herself has no admiration for it, and excuses its presence by the circumstance that her aunt gave it to her.
But in 200 years' time it is more than probable that that dog will be dug up from somewhere or other, minus its legs, and with its tail broken, and will be sold for old china, and put in a glass cabinet.

And people will pass it round, and admire it.