L 
  
IN PRAISE OF GOOD DOGS 
  
  
I HAVE never blushed, even in the presence 
of the young writers of my age, for my admira-
tion for Buffon. But to-day it is not the soul of 
this painter of the stately side of Nature that I 
wish to call to my aid. 
Much more readily would I address myself 
to Sterne, and say to him, “Descend from 
Heaven or rise towards me from the Elysian 
Fields to inspire me with a song in favour of 
good dogs, of poor dogs, which shall be worthy 
of thee, sentimental jester, incomparable 
jester. Come back astride that famous ass 
which ever accompanies thee in the memory of 
posterity, and above all, let this ass not forget 
to carry delicately between his lips his immor-
tal macaroon. 
Back, O academic Muse! I have no use for 
you, old prude. I invoke the familiar Muse, the 
hackneyed Muse, the living Muse, to help me 
to sing of the good dogs, the poor dogs, the 
sorry dogs, the dogs that everyone kicks away 
as pestiferous and lousy, except the poor man