Prose

With four of the largest and most formidable of our Sunnybank collies, I was walking along a country road. Out through a gateway galloped sturdily a shortlegged dog that could have run with ease under the stomach of any of the four collies, without touching their long
underbody hair.  He was black and rough of coat, black and brilliant of eye; prick-eared
and with ridiculously short and stubby legs. At that special moment he was bent upon wholesale destruction. He had dashed out into the highway with the very evident intent of thrashing unmercifully every one of those collies.

He flew snarlingly at the throat of the nearest of them, Sunnybank Wolf, who could thrash his weight in tigers. But unluckily, the tiny hero's short legs would not carry him high enough in the air to get a grip on Wolf's throat. He leaped and snapped in vain. All the time, Wolf stood with wagging tail, looking amusedly down at the black atom of ferocity. From Wolf, the trouble-hunter flew at Sunnybank Gray Dawn and then at Sunnybank Bobby, and then at Lochinvar.  The same bad luck awaited him with each. To save his valiant little life
he could not reach the throat of any of them. Nor could he rouse them out of their amused tail-wagging pose and make them fight back.  Disgusted, he turned aside and gave up the hope of quadruple battle and destruction.

At first I was inclined to laugh at his ludicrous efforts. Then I felt more like taking off my hat to him. Would Jack Dempsey have the courage to do voluntary battle against four giants, thirty feet high and weighing a ton apiece? I think not. Yet that is what the fearless
Scottish Terrier had just attempted.  He had dashed forth to wage single-handed war against four giant dogs, any one of which could have killed him at a single shake. Fortunately
for him those four dogs happened to be collies of a breed which, almost without exception, will not attack a small dog nor resent his assault.

But the Scotty's courage had been no less sublime. Nor was this an isolated case. I have never yet chanced upon a Scotty, however old and feeble, that would not face battle and death at the most impossible odds. The Scotty is a pigmy with the heart of a lion. He
knows no fear. He knows no treachery. My four dogs could have killed this mite with entire ease. Yet as long as he had had the breath of life in him he would have fought on. That is the Scotty of it.

I have spoken of the Scotty's legs as "ridiculously short and stubby." I had no right to do so. Nothing is ridiculous that is made, by Providence, to achieve a definite purpose. The Scotty's legs, and the rest of him, are fashioned for a very definite purpose, and one that
dates back for many centuries. Here is the idea: The Scotty is a terrier. The word :terrier" is from the French "terre" and from the Latin "Terra". A terrier thus is an "earth" dog. In other words, he is built to dig into the earth with his stubby paws and to penetrate the
underground lair of his prey.  Into the stony "earth" of the wiliest and fiercest fox, the Scotty can force his way, there to attack and kill and drag forth the den's lurking occupant. No collie or other large dog can do that. Yes, and whatever the odds against him, the Scotty will plunge eagerly into the hole of badger, otter, or fox. Down there he may will lose his life. But he will lose it fighting with every atom of fight that is in him. He will not sneak out beaten and yowling. He will come out dragging his prey or else he will never come out alive. He is 100 per cent a hero.

Like the collie and like many another grand importation, the Scotty hails from the Highlands. There, for centuries, he has been known and honored. Yet up to about 1880 he does not seem to have carried his fame beyond northern Scotland. By the way, his pet name among his ancestral moors was the "die-hard" terrier. He earned the title if ever title was
earned.  Then fanciers from other parts of Scotland and from England took him up, attracted by his courage, his strength, his utility, and by his sunshiny nature as a chum to such humans as had the sense to appreciate him. They called him the "Aberdeen Terrier". But presently all parts of Scotland were claiming him for their own. At last, out of the tangle of a
half-dozen temporary names, he became know to the world as the Scottish Terrier, a term promptly shortened by colloquial use of "the Scotty ". It wasn't long before America would consent to welcome this great little addition to its list of imported dogs. Ames and Brooks and others brought over fine specimens and tried to interest their fellow-countrymen in the new breed. But at first they met with wretched lack of success, says Watson: "There was no getting the public to take to it. It did not attract... Mr. Brooks could not give some of his young stock away."

Not until Dr. Ewing of St. Louis had the foresight to go heavily into Scotty breeding and form a local club for that purpose did the tide of public favor turn toward the game little blackish dog of Scotland. Since then he has won his own way to nation-wide popularity. The first pair of Scotties were exhibited at an American dog show in 1883. Not for another
decade or more did America give the new-comer his due, as a chum dog and
as an inspired worker. By the way, he is the smallest of the "working terriers". The standard
sets twenty pounds as his maximum weight and his permissible colors from iron gray to black. More of the black, or almost black, are found nowadays than the iron gray. Watson decrees his height as "from nine to twelve inches" at the shoulder.

Like many another "working" dog, the brain which made him a worker has also made him an ideal chum. Alert, affectionate, brave, wise, he has won his way into a thousand owners' hearts. Also he has more than justified the maxim the northland Scots used to apply to him: "Guid gear gangs in mickle bundles," a proverb we have transposed long ago into
"Good things come in small packages." Small enough for a house dog, even in big cities, yet he has not one taint of the lapdog about him. It is no fault of his that he is tiny. If
his body were as big in proportion as his heart and his soul, a two-car garage would be a too-tight kennel for him. He is a real dog, every inch of him. One of the best. I was speaking about the Scotty that rushed out of his owner's grounds to assail my four collies. A week after his unsuccessful effort at demolition, his owner telephoned me in fire distress. The Scotty - Roddy was his name, as it is the name of nearly half of the Scotties I know -had been growling manfully at the rear wheels of a huge ice-truck at his owner's back door when the truck had backed over his nose.  Both upper and under jaw were not merely broken. They were crushed. Two vets were sent for in a rush, and I went over to see if I could be of
use. I found Roddy sitting up gravely in a basket, his fore-face indescribably shattered. Not a whimper escaped from him to tell of his unbearable pain. The vets arrived. One look at him and they said in unison that he must be put at once out of his anguish. There was no hope
for him. Never again could he use his jaws. Inside of three days, a torturing fatal blood poisoning must set in. The little dog kept his sharp black eyes solemnly on mine as the verdict was given. There was something in the unwhimpering appeal that got under my skin. I bade the vets get to work on the smashed jaws. I told them that no doctor would suggest killing a human patient whose jaw was broken; and I demanded the same treatment for Roddy that would be accorded to myself in like straits. 

 Reluctantly, the vets went to work. For two hours they toiled most skillfully over him, setting, splinting, binding. At the end of the time his fore-face was one hideous mask of bandages. Through the front of these plastered bindings, at my request, they opened a hole though which liquid food could be trickled down his throat through a medicine dropper. Then they departed, cheerily prophesying he would be dead in three days.  Three months later, my dogs and I walked past his home. Out charged Roddy, fuller of battle than ever (his jaws as good as new), to try once more to lure my collies into mortal combat with him.
The vet's skill had done much. But it was the dauntless Scotty heart of him that had pulled him through.

I Cant Remember His Name -- Author Unknown

I remember the lady that was with him that day.  She was well dressed, and appeared to be a reasonably educated person.  I remember him sitting next to her. He was a Shetland Sheepdog, sable and white with a touch of distinguishing gray on his muzzle.  The master of maturity had laid it's hand upon him, hazing the brown eyes slightly.  He sat with dignity at his assigned post.  I wondered how he would react when the leash was given to me and his tailored owner walked out the door without him.

"Reason for Surrender, Ma'am?" I asked.  "We just don't have time for him anymore", came the flat, emotionless answer.  Our front door moved slightly. I thought it must be the wind.  I asked the lady if she was aware that a 12 year old dog did not stand a very good chance of finding another home.  Yes, she understood.  The front door moved again, a little further this time.  I questioned her as to the dog's veterinarian, and after getting the phone number, I called the vet. Generally on a dog this age, the vet may be able to enlighten us in regards
to a medical problem that the owners may not be willing to deal with.  Once again, the front door moved and caught my eye. The medical history of the dog was clean, no medical problems were noted.  I walked over to the front door to pull it closed, when I noticed a small pair of blue eyes peering through the crack.  I opened the door to find little blond girl,
maybe 4 years old.  The teary-eyed child had been trying to open the door all this time.  As I opened the door to let her in, a  look of disgust came across the face of the lady owner.

The child rushed in and embraced the elegant Sheltie.  The owner glared at me and curtly asked if we were finished.  I replied yes in a very confused voice.  The owner, now also apparently the mother of this child proceeded to pry the crying girl away from the dog.  I stood there like a dimwit, not quite sure what was going on.  "Let GO of him!" she yelled,
"we have to go NOW!"  The child sobbed and buried her face in the dog's ruff.  Through her
sniffling I could make out the words "I'll be good, please mommy, nooo".  As the mother literally drug her daughter out of the office, the last words I heard the mom say as the door slowly closed were "I told you if you didn't clean your room, I would…."  I have known for a long time how callous people can be with their pets. This day made me wonder if  compassion was a thing of the past.  To sacrifice the life of an animal to "teach a lesson" to a child was by far the shallowest, most heartless reason I have ever come across in all my years at the humane society. I wish I could console that child.  And I wish I could remember that dog's name.

12 Steps for Scottie-holics

Step 1. We admitted that we were powerless over Scottish Terriers -that our lives had become unmanageable.
Step 2. Came to believe that a Scotty greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
Step 3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of Scotty as we understand him.
Step 4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of our Scotty.
Step 5. Admitted to Scotty, to ourselves and to another Scotty-holic the exact nature of our wrongs.
Step 6. Were entirely ready to have Scotty remove all these defects of character.
Step 7. Humbly asked Scotty to remove our shortcomings.
Step 8. Made a list of all Scotties we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
Step 9. Made direct amends to such Scotties wherever possible except when to do so would injure them or others.
Step 10. Continued to take personal inventory and when were wrong promptly told Scotty about it.
Step 11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with Scotty as we understood him, praying only for the knowledge of Scotty's will for us and the will to carry that out!
Step 12. Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to Scotty-holics and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

A LIVING LOVE (by Martin Scot Kosins)

If you ever love an animal, there are three days in your life you will always remember . . .

The first is a day, blessed with happiness, when you bring home your young new friend. You may have spent weeks deciding on a breed. You may have asked numerous opinions of many vets, or done long research in finding a breeder.  Or, perhaps in a fleeting moment, you may have just chosen that silly looking mutt in a shelter -- simply because something in its
eyes reached your heart. But when you bring that chosen pet home, and watch it explore, and claim its special place in your hall or front room -- and when you feel it brush against you for the first time -- it instills a feeling of pure love you will carry with you through the many years to come.

The second day will occur eight or nine or ten years later. It will be a day like any other. Routine and unexceptional.  But, for a surprising instant, you will look at your longtime friend and see age where you once saw youth.  You will see slow deliberate steps where you once saw energy.  And you will see sleep when you once saw activity.  So you will begin to adjust your friend's diet -- and you may add a pill or two to her food.  And you may feel a growing fear deep within yourself, which bodes of a coming emptiness.  And you will feel this uneasy feeling, on and off, until the third day finally arrives.

And on this day -- if your friend and whatever higher being you believe in have not decided for you, then you will be faced with making a decision of your own -- on behalf of your lifelong friend, and with the guidance of your own deepest Spirit.  But whichever way your friend eventually leaves you -- you will feel as long as a single star in the dark night.

If you are wise, you will let the tears flow as freely and as often as they must.  And if you are typical, you will find that not many in your circle of family  or friends will be able to understand your grief, or comfort you.

But if you are true to the love of the pet you cherished through the many joy-filled years, you may find that a soul -- a bit smaller in size than your own -- seems to walk with you, at times, during the lonely days to come.

And at moments when you least expect anything out of the ordinary to happen, you may feel something brush against your leg -- very very lightly.

And looking down at the place where your dear, perhaps dearest, friend used to lie -- you will remember those three significant days.  The memory will most likely to be painful, and leave an ache in your heart -- As time passes the ache will come and go as if it has a life of its own. You will both reject it and  it, and it may confuse you.  If you reject it, it will depress you. If you embrace it, it will deepen you. Either way, it will still be an ache.

But there will be, I assure you, a fourth day when -- along with the memory of your pet -- and piercing through the heaviness in your heart -- there will come a realization that belongs only to you. It will be as unique and strong as our relationship with each animal we have loved, and lost. This realization takes the form of a Living Love -- like the heavenly scent of a rose that remains after the petals have wilted, this Love will remain and grow -- and be there for us to remember. It is a love we have earned. It is the legacy our pets leave us when they go. And it is a gift we may keep with us as long as we live. It is a Love which is ours alone. And until we ourselves leave, perhaps to join our Beloved Pets -- it is a Love we will always possess.

How Do I Love Thee? -- Author Unknown

To my dog(s): 
  
How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways... 
 
1.  I love thee agreeably - enough to let your stinky doghide on the bed after a run through damp leaves, mud and slug infested gardens. 
 
2.  I love thee steadfastly - enough to devote a year to raising you from a wobbly speck into a strong healthy adult (who promptly attempts to seize control). 
 
3.  I love thee passionately - despite your repeated efforts to probe my ears, eyes and mouth with the same tongue you use for various other atrocities. 
 
4.  I love thee well - despite the amazing odors you produce. 
 
5.  I love thee deeply - though you use me as a napkin at every opportunity. 
 
6.  I love thee madly - despite the various bodily functions you have performed at inappropriate moments - in inappropriate places. 
 
7.  I love thee constantly - despite the dog "bladder curfew" I have lived by for many years. 
 
8.  I love thee truly - despite the "doggie landmines" hidden in the grass. 
 
9.  I love thee absolutely - because you never (well, hardly ever) hog the remote control. 
 
10.  I love thee gratefully - because you stay by my side (or on my side). 
 
11.  I love thee devotedly - more than clean carpeting, clothing, furniture, floors or walls. 
 
12.  I love thee bravely - enough to battle the indomitable flea on your behalf. 
 
13.  I love thee monetarily - enough to put the vet's children through college. 
 
14.  I love thee openly - I will bear any embarrassment for your furry sake. 
 
15.  I love thee totally - more than free time, excess cash or a  predictable life.