An' you could always train off a few ounces.

You're all dog n' all correct conformation.

You've got the racing build and the fighting weight, an' there ain't no feathers on your legs." "No, sir, Mr.Dog, your weight's to the good, and that ear can be ironed out by any respectable dog--doctor.

I bet there's a hundred men in Sydney right now that would fork over twenty quid for the right of calling you his." And then, just that Michael should not make the mistake of thinking he was being much made over, Daughtry leaned back, relighted his pipe, and apparently forgot his existence.

Instead of bidding for good will, he was bent on making Michael do the bidding.
And Michael did, bumping his flanks against Daughtry's knee; nudging his head against Daughtry's hand, in solicitation for more of the blissful ear-rubbing and tail-twisting.