A little shaky in the knees, we continued trudging and met Franz Gussik, the dog breeder. Here was a classic slob, taller and fatter than me, with a three-day growth of beard, wearing greasy thermal long johns, overalls, and insulated boots. He had an openmouthed, gaping, staring expression and drooled slightly. He stood listing to the left or right and looked at us with his head cocked to the side. He breathed loudly and scratched himself with dirt-encrusted fingernails. I had no basis for comparison at the time, but I now know that as dog breeders go, he was above average. He could read and write, and I believe had never eaten a child of his own.
- Daniel Pinkwater,
Uncle Boris in the Yukon and Other Shaggy Dog Stories
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