If this old hound could show the form he had when Lord Odysseus left him, going to Troy, you’d see him swift and strong.
I marvel that they leave this hound to lie here on the dung pile; he would have been a fine dog, from the look of him, though I can’t say as to his power and speed when he was young.
He never shrank from any savage thing he’d brought to bay in the deep woods; on the scent, no other dog kept up with him. Now misery has him in leash. His owner died abroad, and here the women slaves will take no care of him.