On nearing a village, you would see one black fellow, ‘Pincher,’ set off at a round trot ahead, with seemingly the most innocent air in the world.  ‘Tilly,’ ‘Tiny,’ and ‘Nipper’ follow.

Then ‘Dandy,’ ‘Curly,’ ‘Brandy,’ and ‘Nettle,’ till spying a cat in the distance, the whole pack with a whimper of excitement dash off at a mad scramble, the hound straining meanwhile at the slip, till he almost pulls the mehter off his legs.  Off goes the cat, round the corner of a hut with her tail puffed up to fully three times its normal size.  Round in mad, eager pursuit rattle the terriers, thirsting for her blood.  The syce dashes forward, vainly hoping to turn them from their quest.  Now a village dog, roused from his morning nap, bounds out with a demoniac howl, which is caught up and echoed by all the curs in the village.

Meanwhile the row inside the hut is fiendish.  The sleeping family rudely roused by the yelping pack, utter the most discordant screams.  The women with garments fluttering behind them, rush out beating their breasts, thinking the very devil is loose.  The wails of the unfortunate cat mingle with the short snapping barks of the pack, or a howl of anguish as puss inflicts a caress on the face of some too careless or reckless dog.  A howling village cur has rashly ventured too near.  ‘Pincher’ has him by the hind leg before you could say ‘Jack Robinson.’  Leaving the dead cat for ‘Toby’ and ‘Nettle’ to worry, the whole pack now fiercely attack the luckless Pariah dog.  A dozen of his village mates dance madly outside the ring, but are too wise or too cowardly to come to closer quarters.  The kangaroo hound has now fairly torn the rope from the keeper’s hand, and with one mighty bound is in the middle of the fight, scattering the village dogs right and left.  The whole village is now in commotion, the syce and keeper shout the names of the terriers in vain.  Oaths, cries, shouts, and screams mingle with the yelping and growling of the combatants, till riding up, I disperse the worrying pack with a few cracks of my hunting whip, and so on again over the zillah, leaving the women and children to recover their scattered senses, the old men to grumble over their broken slumbers, and the boys and young men to wonder at the pluck and dash of the Belaitee Kookoor, or English dog.

The common Pariah dog, or village dog of India, is a perfect cur; a mangy, carrion-loving, yellow-fanged, howling brute.  A most unlovely and unloving beast.  As you pass his village he will bounce out on you with the fiercest bark and the most menacing snarl; but lo! if a terrier the size of a teacup but boldly go at him, down goes his tail like a pump-handle, he turns white with fear, and like the arrant coward that he is, tumbles on his back and fairly screams for mercy.  I have often been amused to see a great hulking cowardly brute come out like an avalanche at ‘Pincher,’ expecting to make one mouthful of him.  What a look of bewilderment he would put on, as my gallant little ‘Pincher,’ with a short, sharp, defiant bark would go boldly at him.  The huge yellow brute would stop dead short on all four legs, and as the rest of my pack would come scampering round the corner, he would find himself the centre of a ring of indomitable assailants.