Henson and I are both part terrier. We’re not sure what kind of terrier mix he is, but he sure has terrier blood in him. I got him from S’Wheat Rescues, a really decent organization that has found homes for more than 600 dogs. They rescue wheatens and “wheatables,” such as Henson, from puppy mills, from people who can’t afford to keep them, and from situations where they have begun to fight with other family dogs. It seems the females are the most likely to end up picking fights with other females, and I’m hoping it’s a totally gender-related thing because part of my adoption contract is being restricted to getting an opposite sex dog if I want to add to the pack. I haven’t had a female dog, nor a second dog for that matter, in 26 years! When I discussed getting another dog with my groomer, she stated what I realized was the obvious as soon as she said it—“Female wheatens love you, but male wheatens are IN love with you.” Hey, I like being in love!
Everywhere we go, the most frequently asked question is "what kind of dog is that?" People stop us constantly, and all I can say is "He's a long dog." They originally thought Henson was part Bassett hound because he is so long and low to the ground, with big front feet that turn slightly outward. But then his hair grew in. (He'd been shaved in the kill shelter or somewhere else enroute.) So now we don’t know. His hair is long, looks coarse but is soft, and he sheds like a cat. There’s dog hair everywhere, weaving itself into my carpet, floating around in the car, furring the bottoms of my socks, and annoyingly, in every pot I cook something in. I’m not used to that, after 25 years of owning wheatens, who don’t shed at all. I’m surprised I’m not allergic to Henson, but we seem to be ok in that department.
Henson’s got a strong hunting instinct. He gets a scent and drags me in zigzags around the neighborhood, backyard, and park. He trees squirrels, tries to root out rabbits and skunks from under bushes (we’re pushing our luck on that front), and really wants to chase deer until he drops. Fergus, my last wheaten, once took off after a pack of deer in the park, disappearing over the crest of a hill. Within a few minutes he was back, though, with a slightly confused but resigned look on his face, like he’d figured out he’d never catch one of those and wouldn’t bother trying again. Henson had a similar experience with a flock of turkeys up north. He seems to have a herding instinct as well, but luckily decided it was more fun to chase Samson, the Standard Poodle, around and be chased back. This weekend he had his first close encounter with a horse in the park. He stood on his hind legs, balancing his weight against his collar and the taught leash, and barked his head off. The horses, and their riders, were nonplussed. Later, as we passed one of the horse farms, 8 or 9 horses let him scrutinize them through the fence. One even walked along with us as though it rather liked dogs. There was no further barking, maybe because he was outnumbered, but I’m glad he got to see more horses on the same excursion and will recognize them again, hopefully quietly. The last thing we need is a stampede or swift kick to the head!
Henson lying down in the lake after a long walk.
Henson expresses himself with his feet. Going down stairs is pretty tricky because he bats at my feet and licks my toes, alternating sides, while holding his tail against my leg to gauge my next move. It’s slow going with an armload of laundry! He also pushes at me with his nose if he thinks I’m taking too long to get ready for a walk. I often have round nose wet spots on the back of my shirt or legs as he circles me, encouraging me to hurrying up. His turned out feet are perfect for his favorite posture in the car, which is to stand with his back legs on the back seat and his front feet on each front-seat arm rest, his head even with mine, eagerly looking out the front window. He’s my little copilot. If I look to the right, checking on traffic, I often get a big slurp. And if we’ve had an especially good walk in the park, replete with time to lie down in a swift flowing creek and then leap around the small, numerous falls, biting at the froth, he’s so joyous on the way home that I get tons of creek-water-breath kisses.
Happy to be along for the ride
So, how can I be part terrier? I mentioned when I introduced Henson that I’m adopted. Well, the story goes (as I recall) that my parents had a litter of Kerry Blue terriers right before I was born and the mother refused to nurse them. So my mom was mixing formula for the puppies with one hand and Dr. Spock’s formula for me with the other and some days, with 6 puppies and a newborn, she was so frazzled she just didn’t know which was which by feeding time. They both contained Brewer’s yeast and molasses, and were no doubt equally delicious, so who cares? Hence, I have always had an affinity for the terrier: rowdy, curious, funny, rambunctious, insistent, bull headed (I’m a Taurus, too), obstinate, wily sense of humor, extreme loyalty, and the center of attention by default. Plus, I absolutely love to go for rides!
I can only imagine what it was like to be surrounded by wriggly curly haired energetic balls of puppy breath for the first few months of my life. At one point, there were easily over a dozen Kerry’s in the family—everyone had one. Some of my earliest memories are being surrounded by dogs on my parents’ bed, my parents in their bathrobes propped up by pillows, with steaming cups of coffee and pockets overflowing with dog biscuits. The dog population would double on holidays, with my grandmother’s and aunt’s Kerry’s joining the crowd, them also in their bathrobes, biscuits bulging out their pockets, too, laughing and talking and making us wait for breakfast or present-opening frenzies. Those were glorious, warm, comforting mornings.
***All photos were taken by me. Please do not copy or reproduce them in any way.***
No comments:
Post a Comment