He had tried to. When the Bulldog spoke to him （or， as he thought， first snarled and then growled at him） he held out his shaking hand and gasped “Good Doggie， then， poor old fellow.” But the beasts could not understand him any more than he could understand them. They didn’t hear any words： only a vague sizzling noise. Perhaps it was just as well they didn‘t， for no dog that I ever knew， least of all a Talking Dog of Narnia， likes being called a “Good Doggie then”； any more than you would like being called “My Little Man”.
Then Uncle Andrew dropped down in a dead faint. “There！” said a Warthog， “It’s only a tree. I always thoughtso.” （Remember， they had never yet seen a faint or even a fall.）The Bulldog， who had been sniffing Uncle Andrew all over， raised its head and said， “It‘s an animal. Certainly an animal. And probably the same kind as those other ones.”
“I don’t see that，” said one of the Bears. “An animal wouldn‘t just roll over like that. We’re animals and we don‘t roll over. We stand up. Like this.” He rose to his hind legs， took a step backwards， tripped over a low branch and fell flat on his back.
“The Third Joke， the Third Joke， the Third joke！” said the Jackdaw in great excitement.
