Border Lines & Border Terriers

Disclaimer: Not one of my ancestors!

I’ve always had a dog. Crinkled family photos show well loved dogs owned by ancestors that I never even met. In my early married life, we had dogs in multiples – six at a time when we had a small acreage – so it has been strange and unsettling to have since endured an entire decade without any at all. The last dogs I had were Shar-Pei, exceptionally easy-going, companionable, intelligent and despite what you may have heard, ours were the very best with children. Sadly, we only had 7 years with The Incomparable ‘Hobson’ and once he and the others (‘Rose’, ‘Neon-Moon’) all passed away in quick succession after my husband’s departure, I had nothing left to give and no money for vet bills. 

Since then I have agonized over getting another. There are obviously many negatives that any seasoned dog owner can bring to mind: the shedding; the turmeric-stained carpets that can never be restored to their former scent-free glory; epic vet bills; anal glands that have to be squeezed; a naked heel sinking into warm dog sick on the floor and of course ongoing arguments with one’s spouse that often have one of the afore mentioned at their core.

But I cannot help pointing out dogs in the street, cooing as their furry bottoms swing by in a jaunty gait. The General, has been openly unmoved by any of this. He doesn’t avidly dislike them (or I wouldn’t be with him) but he often says that his very favourite dogs always belong to someone else. Yet he too has always had them in his life one way or another and I believe he doesn’t really know what they are for.

(I am aware that this sounds like a woman who “tricks” the man by getting pregnant and hoping he will love the baby once it arrives …)

With all this to consider, and with all kinds of well-meaning (and not so well meaning) people shaking their heads gravely and posing novel considerations in a singsong, you’ll-be-sorry tone such as “what about travel?” or “They really tie you dowwwwwn…” I finally decided to listen to my own intuition instead. The General was game and feigned excitement. Once this decision was made, I was full of joy. I missed the clicking toenails! I ached to feel the weight of a soft nose in my hand, the hilarious bum in the air wanting-to-play stance and that hero’s welcome when the door opens …

And so after a year of waiting, (and six months prior to THAT, searching daily to adopt a dog that was not a pit bull cross with a catheter in Mexico City) Stanley, a Border Terrier pup, came into our home.

The key word here is ‘Terrier’ – despite copious reading and research (and years of being a Terrier admirer), I did not truly grasp what this meant.

Until now.

Let us be clear. He.is.adorable. He is bright, charming and has excelled at being house broken – and this was in darkest January when he was trapped inside all day and was being air-lifted outside every hour on the hour to wade through crispy snow in order to produce steaming but highly praised results. He is confident in his crate, loves his bully sticks and appreciates a nice bit of Welsh cheddar. (This is starting to sound like his dating app, but stay with me …)

At a very young age, Stanley exhibited a will of iron. His first two ‘puppy classes’ (and he only went to 2) were horrifying as he unexpectedly lunged at the other teeny pups (some of whom were wearing ermine capes with diamanté collars) and the irritating instructor nodded in front of the class: “Yep, you choose a natural born killer when you choose a terrier.” I wept when I got home. We never went back.

Walks were no better – he challenged other dogs rudely (think: Liam Gallagher after a night out on the ale) and tried to nip any that approached, so nicely, with their wagging tails. I was ashamed. Humiliated. Never experienced this before.

But I do recall reading once that every terrier is born with their own leather jacket …

We are now working with A Personal Therapist Trainer and, I believe, seeing some good results but it is slow. Am I too old – I hate that thought most of all. But in between he is truly wonderful with us – he is so soft in the mouth and polite with snacks and his dinner and even his beloved Bullies if I take them away – so I am trying to realize that maybe he does not have to be Noël Coward as a dog when he is out.

I will also say that the distraction of being forced to think of something other than the Pandemic is not unwelcome.

I will also say too that not unlike like The Grinch himself, The General’s heart is gradually expanding.

Yesterday I watched him tenderly cutting toast corners into even smaller triangles for Stanley. (Strangely, he does insist on calling him a variety of names so ‘L’il Jasper’ (is this his rap name??), ‘Farnsworth’ and “Roscoe’ have all become acceptable monikers). Stanley accepts such eccentricities (with his toast corners) in his bouncy stride and you know no judgement, mate, d’you know what I mean?

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