They both belong to the generic "yellow dog" type (or "ideal," as I like to term it) to which all dogs seem to revert when miscegenation reaches its apogee.
The only thing I knew about Hank when we adopted him from a NYC Pound in 1993 was that he was 6 months old and wandering around Central Park and that he might have been abused. Since then, I have seen a lot of these "yellow dogs" and found it interesting and unsettling in equal measure. As if Hank were a Kentucky Gentleman, and then I see armies of Colonel Saunders all around on my drive home from the vet (a throwaway comment our fearless leader made that still resonates with me as being top tier nightmare).
Dogs know. My wife told me that she once took Hank for a walk down a forest path. As she approached the basin, this unseemly character started toward here, stepping out of the shadows, as it were. At that point, Hank rippled his "lips" and bared his incisors in a fierce display of "don't even try, asshole." Because he never does that unless he needs to.
Somebody recently threw a cinderblock through the back window of our rowhouse in Baltimore, and Hank didn't do anything. Just stayed in his basket. The police actually caught the guy in flagrante delicto. Hank probably thought, whatever .... I'm tired. Let's let the cops deal with this one.
Love that dog.