Their eyes are dull, sleepy, and utterly devoid of
expression. Constantinople dogs have neither masters nor brains. No
brains because no masters. Perhaps no masters because no brains.
Nobody wants to adopt an idiot. They are, of course, mongrels of the
most hopeless type. They are yellowish, with thick, short, woolly
coats, and much fatter than you expect to find them. They walk like a
funeral procession. Never have I seen one frisk or even wag his tail.
Everybody turns out for them. They sleep--from twelve to twenty of
them--on a single pile of garbage, and never notice either men or each
other unless a dog which lives in the next street trespasses. Then
they eat him up, for they are jackals as well as dogs, and they are no
more epicures than ostriches. They never show interest in anything.
They are _blase_. I saw some mother dogs asleep, with tiny puppies
swarming over them like little fat rats, but the mothers paid no
attention to them. Children seem to bore them quite as successfully as
if they were women of fashion.
We went sailing up the Golden Horn to the Skutari cemetery, one of the
loveliest spots of this thrice-fascinating Constantinople.
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