Permission was given, however, for Lady
Burdett-Coutts to put up a suitable memorial to Bobby at the end of
George IV Bridge, and opposite the main gateway to the kirkyard.
For such a public place a tomb was unsuitable. What form the
memorial was to take was not decided upon until, because of two
chance happenings of one morning, the form of it bloomed like a
flower in the soul of the Grand Leddy. She had come down to the
kirkyard to watch the artist at work. Morning after morning he had
sketched there. He had drawn Bobby lying down, his nose on his
paws, asleep on the grave. He had drawn him sitting upon the
table-tomb, and standing in the begging attitude in which he was so
irresistible. But with every sketch he was dissatisfied.
Bobby was a trying and deceptive subject. He had the air of
curiosity and gaiety of other terriers. He saw no sense at all in
keeping still, with his muzzle tipped up or down, and his tail held
just so. He brushed all that unreasonable man's suggestions aside
as quite unworthy of consideration. Besides, he had the liveliest
interest in the astonishing little dog that grew and disappeared,
and came back, in some new attitude, on the canvas. He scraped
acquaintance with it once or twice to the damage of fresh
brush-work. He was always jumping from his pose and running around
the easel to see how the latest dog was coming on.
After a number of mornings Bobby lost interest in the man and his
occupation and went about his ordinary routine of life as if the
artist was not there at all.
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