I met him in a Cornish village in a house where I stayed.

There was a nice kennel there, painted green, with a bed of clean straw and an empty plate which had contained his dinner, but on peeping in I saw no dog.

Next day it was the same, and the next, and the day after that; then I inquired about it--Was there a dog in that house or not?
Oh, yes, certainly there was: Jack, but a very independent sort of dog.

On most days he looked in, ate his dinner and had a nap on his straw, but he was not what you would call a home-keeping dog.
One day I found him in, and after we had looked for about a minute at each other, I squatting before the kennel, he with chin on paws pretending to be looking through me at something beyond, I addressed a few kind words to him, which he received with the before-mentioned growl.

I pronounced him a surly brute and went away.