I had a dressmaker in the house, and Kizzie was always going for a deadly danger--here a pin, there a needle, just a step away a tack or a bit of thread or a bead of jet.
Outdoors it was even worse.

With two bird dogs ready for anything but birds, the pug that had already devoured all that had come to me of my expensive importations, a neighbor's cat often stealing over to hunt for her dinner, a crisis seemed imminent every minute.

Even his own father would destroy him if they met, as the peacock allows no possible rival.
And Kizzie kept so close to my heels that I hardly dared step.

If my days were distracting, the nights were inexpressibly awful.

I supposed he would be glad to go to sleep in a natural way after a busy day.