This week I adopted a cross Schnauser/Wire Head Terrier - abandoned by his previous owner because there wasn't room in her new relationship for him.I met him about a month ago - the shelter had brought him with them to their 'open day' at a local nursery, and I was buying snail pellets and plant food. He was grieving; almost catatonically depressed, not making much of a good impression on potential adopters, lying listlessly in his cage like a beached seal.
I rushed straight into 'rescue mode'. But Mark wasn't impressed with my story, or the pic. He had his heart set on a Jack Russell.
So I left Jack amid the succulents, and started researching what the America Kennel Club call: "the bad dog". The research left me shell-shocked. Our friend Ryan's dog, Storm, was nothing like the small domineering tyrants depicted in story after story on the internet. It couldn't possibly be true.
Then a breeder warned me: be very sure, and sent me an article on Jack Russells that described a family life turned upside down. The writer owned a working farm, had kept dogs his while life and bred Dobermans. Yet, the terrier had taken over. He described insane escapades, and closed saying their challenge now was to get their dog through the next 10 years without it escaping, killing itself in the traffic, or challenging their dominant Doberman in an effort to become pack-leader.
I shelved that idea.
Somehow my search for terriers brought me back to Jack. The cautious breeder sent me a photo of him ... not knowing we had met. I saw it as a prompt from the Universe: Listen here, you were looking for a Jack and I have provided one. So what if it isn't the one you were anticipating. Get on with it.
I still had doubts: What if it didn't work, what if we didn't like him, what if I couldn't manage the dog - we could hardly take him back. My pragmatic friend Claudia put me straight: "Go for it", she said... "you know how to manage rockstars and children - please, it will be a doddle."
So I called the shelter: "I'm coming to fetch him".
Jack loves his new home, he follows me everywhere, likes going for walks and tests his boundaries constantly. In a gentle doe-eyed way. He chances his arm every night: trying to get onto the bed. I use a Supernanny technique, moving him back to his bed over and over: "You're not going to win this one Buddy. I've watched the TV show".He goes to lie on his blanket: looking at me reproachfully. But I can see the glint behind all that hair. And I know, as far as he is concerned, this conversation is to be continued.
Then there's the eating: rather the non-eating. That is making me anxious. Jack is bloody finicky. My mom checks in regularly, chuckling: remember what you used to say to me when the kids wouldn't eat: "leave them be, they'll eat when they are hungry".
I refuse to get involved in a battle of wits with a small hairy creature (a few of whom bested their experienced grandmother!). Caesar Millan (my new guru) says tough love is needed: "No dog ever starved itself". I'll follow his rules, and I am sure it will work out fine. (And just to be doubly sure, I picked up some delicious "real meals for dogs" from Woolies.) Besides, Jack needs to lose 2kgs, off a 9kg body - so by the time he is hungry - there may be an unexpected up-side for him.
The other test is the poop: my brothers and friends find it hilarious that I am picking up Jack's scat ... they never thought they would see the day. Especially as I gag at the smell and Jack has the semi-runs at the moment, so is squirting it out in a circle. Hey: I can hold my breath for 90 secs, I've learned to quash my gag reflex, and I'm a fan of double bagging. Claudia was right - my experience has prepared me well. It's going to be a doddle.
