Those Terrible Terriers
“I’d like a puppy!”, cried the Pheebs. We’d moved to Bisbee, AZ a few weeks earlier and had just unpacked enough boxes to find the floor. “He’d be cute and snuggly and keep me company!”. We’d had a cat before, a Maine Coon by the name of Chevrolet. It’s a great name for a cat, especially an overly large, ultra-mellow cat whose quirk was an uncontrollable desire to ride dogs. Technically, we still have him, but he’s been relegated to a little box upon his demise so he’s not all that interactive these days.
There’s a saying, “Happy wife, happy life.” So…We were getting a pup, and that was that.
We went to a shelter, and there were pups available! Two left out of a litter of eight; we were instantly attracted to sleek black eight-week-old who looked all the world like a tiny black Labrador Retriever. I like labs, and I like black dogs, so this looked like a good match. I checked out the mother for reference…
If ever there was a finalist in the Ugly Dog Contest, she was one. Wiry, patchy gray fur partially covered her smallish frame, with pointy/floppy ears and a curiously upcurved tail in constant motion. That tail should have been a clue, but I focused on her disposition. She seemed a happy dog, and her tiny, shiny offspring was utterly adorable. We took her out to let her crawl about, and she snuggled up the to the Pheebs. That was it. She was coming home with us.
We stopped by the pet store and picked up a gajillion puppish provisions on the way home. After raising two kids, three cats and innumerable frogs (it was a kid phase — don’t ask), a cute little pup was both familiar and strange. We let her wander around the house a bit, and then put her down for the night in her very own pup bed, complete with a cute little blanket. After circling several times as pups are wont to do, she laid down for the night. Then she looked up, and while locking eyes with me, she took the blanket into her mouth and with a deft motion swung it up and rolled over, tucking herself in. She closed her eyes and fell asleep. I stood there, both shocked and awed.
Now I’ve known a fair share of dogs. Big ones, small ones, old ones and young ones. Smart ones and dogs which made fence posts look intelligent. Never had I seen one tuck themselves in for bed, much less one the canine equivalent of a one-year old baby do the thing I’d just seen. I began to wonder if I’d brought home an infant Mogwai — a gremlin in a dog suit.
After much deliberation, we named the little tiny shiny pup Buchi, which is Cuban coffee. Buchi is served in little cups — equal parts insanely strong coffee and cane sugar. It’s sweet and intense; a substantial percentage of the residents of Key West are buchi-fueled freaks. It was an inspired choice.
Buchi was the sweetest pup — for about a week. She learned she needed to potty outside on about the third day. She’d stand at the Pheeb’s side, waiting to be picked up and placed in Mom’s lap. We were smitten. Then, on the eighth day…All hell broke loose. She became a midget Cerberus — the Demon Dog.
Everything Buchi did was speeded up by a factor of 10. She’d get the zoomies in the house, and her speed and intensity was unfathomable. A few years later, I clocked her drag-racing a car, and this tiny black pup was capable of out accelerating cars to 35 MPH. Most dogs conk out around 25 MPH, but this little bitch still had pedal left. When a hotrod pup drops the hammer in your house, it’s absolute mayhem. She would sprint from the dining room, through the kitchen and into the living room, hitting terminal velocity about 12’ before the sofa. A black bullet on the street is impressive — one in your living room is terrifying. At the top of the key, the Bootch would air-fucking-Jordan the sofa, using the upholstered back as a Daytona high banked curve, reversing direction and caroming back through the kitchen and dining room, exploding through the pup door for a full-metal launch into the backyard. You don’t have to take my word for it; my good friend Kelly Galligan, an avowed dog lover, witnessed it firsthand and was, well,… shocked.
Buchi quickly developed the vocal cords of a Great Dane, and used them often and with feeling. Her chosen profession was the Defender of the Realm and Her Subjects. No, she had no masters, she had Subjects. It wasn’t up for discussion. You were to do her bidding. It was that simple. She was In Charge, and you — you were to submit to her Every Desire.
It was about this time we discovered the terrible truth. We’d inadvertently brought home a Terrier. That cute curly tail on her mom was the clue. Terriers carry their tail high and in a characteristic curl; Buchi was no exception. Our eldest daughter discovered the ugly truth — Buchi was a Patterdale Terrier.
In the continuum of all things Terrier, the Patterdale is the worst of the bunch — by a wide margin. A Jack Russel is a loudmouthed Marine of a dog, making their presence known with a loud “HOO-AHH!” before diving headfirst into the peril. Patterdales? Well, shit. They’re fucking ninja dogs. We woke up one morning about two weeks into Buchi’s adjustment to her new home to discover her comfortably nestled between us in bed. She’d managed to figure out how to unlock her cage, sneak over hardwood floors in the dining room, kitchen and hallway and not only get into bed with us, but get under the covers without waking either occupant of said bed. Like I said — that’s ninja level stealth right there. It took me two years to discover her sneak secret. She slinks like a cat. Seriously. Never seen a dog do it, but Buchi? Yep. In doing so, she gets her nails off the floor, making her utterly silent in pursuit of prey — or a warm bed. If she wants, really wants something — she’s gonna get it, and there’s not a goddamned thing you can do to stop her.
Patterdales are bred hunter/killer ninjas, capable of dispatching animals 2X their size. We’ve lost count of Buchi’s kills; hell, she’s taken out critters while on a 6’ leash. If you’re on her “prey” list and enter the kill zone, you’re done. It’s over before you have a chance to react. Patterdale owners have been warned the “prey” list is absurdly long and that six animals to one Patterdale are about even odds, unless the animals are large, like bears and shit. Then it’s even at three bears to a Patterdale. We had a mountain lion in the yard about a year ago; we had to confine Buchi to the house to insure the lion’s safety.
Buchi is the ultimate monarch; she’s the master of all she sees. When she travels, she’s 100% alert, surveying new land for her claim. She’s up to seventeen states and three Canadian territories. She is their master, along with all the critters therein.
After the second year of the reign of Buchi, we realized she needed another subject. After discussion, we opted to adopt another dog so that Buchi would have a pet of her own. Most folks adopt a second dog because they love dogs; in our case, we’d gotten tired of Buchi bitching at us whenever we didn’t do her bidding. FEED ME! WALK ME! PLAY WITH ME! We’d enrolled her in obedience school, but that was a lost cause. Buchi did everything on her terms; she sat when she felt like it, she came only when it was convenient for her, and going to bed? Fuggedaboutit. She’s never responded to that command — ever.
We took Queen Bootch to the shelter to pick out her chamber mate, and after minimal deliberation she chose yet another terrier. Looking all the world like Benji’s grandson, this fuzzy little man was the cutest little spud we’ve seen, so we named him The Tater.
Buchi wasted no time on Tater’s training. Tater was her dog, after all. The Tater knows no human commands other than, “DAMMIT, TATER!”, at which point he comes to your feet, rolls over and exposes his belly in an act of complete submission. Buchi trained him to do that. I know this to be true, as when I give the Tater a treat for being so darned cute and submissive, Buchi demands the treat as a tithe to the Queen of All-She-Sees. In addition, Buchi has trained Tater to bark for her. I’m completely serious on this — Buchi, when something unusual approaches the house, lets out a single sharp bark and fakes heading for the dog door. Tater springs into action, and as soon as he passes the Bootch, she hits the brakes, sliding to a stop before the door flap. She turns around, leaving the Tater to bark like a meth-head at the perceived danger while she prances (yes, she prances) back to her bed where I swear, she smiles before laying down and curling up in a ball to go back to sleep.
The Tater is a cute little spud in his own right, but once again — he’s a Terrier. A Border Terrier, to be specific — a type of terrier which is insanely protective of his territory, as his name implies. That — and he has three other quirks. First — he’s a licker. The three-hour doorbell licking dude has nothing on the Tater. The Tater will lick anything, and if his stanky-assed breath is any indication, there’s no anus beyond his reach. Second, he loves wood. We hauled him into the vet’s office when he was about a year old with a stomach ailment. After about an hour, the vet called us back. “You gotta see this!”, the vet cried. We were led out to a not insubstantial pile of kindling behind the vet’s office. “This is what I got out of Tater with an enema. He was backed up with a LOT of wood!” Yeah, that’s our Tater — a regular lumberjack.
Finally, the Tater is capable of going into a very terrier-esque “chainsaw mode”. This is where a terrier makes these unholy growly/screechy noises and then spins at a supernatural rate, exposing the threat to a maelstrom of sharp, pointy things. Don’t ask why. I have no idea, but it’s just a thing Taters do. I’ve seen rabid animals act similarly when backed into a corner and they’re faced with certain destruction; the Tater does it on days ending in Y. It’s terrifying to watch, and all it does is annoy the hell out of Buchi who casually reaches in all ninja-y and flips the “off” switch somehow. She then finds a nice comfy spot in front of the fireplace where she plots the demise of small-to-midsize forest animals while commanding the Tater to secure the perimeter.
So yes — terriers are intense. Outrageously, insanely intense. Why do we keep them? Well…
They love their humans with the same level of intensity. There’s no middle ground with a terrier. If you’re lucky, really lucky, you’ll have the rare opportunity to be adored by a terrier or two and lemmetellya — there’s nothing like it on this earth.
Assuming you survive, that is.
