Identity crisis. What am I here for?

What does it mean to be a fox terrier in 2022? 

This important issue has been a subject of much debate in the Gail and Bertie household all week, prompted by the fact that a fox appears to have taken up residence in our inner city neighbourhood in Aberdeen. 

We have seen the fox a couple of times on our walks, and Gail even managed to catch it on camera on Tuesday evening.

I don't know if you are already aware, but us fox terriers were bred as working dogs, our role in fox hunting being to flush foxes from their earths, so that they could then be chased by humans on horses together with a pack of fox hounds, and torn to pieces by said hounds. 

So it is to my great disappointment that whenever we see our local fox, Gail grabs my lead extra tight to prevent me from following the fox to its earth and then obeying my natural instincts.

Gail's reasoning is that hunting foxes with hounds in the 'traditional' way is now illegal in the UK, and even if it were not, the horse riders and hounds would have a hard time chasing their prey through our city streets. So she says I have to accept that, as with the Luddites and coal miners in the UK before me, my traditional occupation is now redundant.

Although I still find this hard to swallow, I am somewhat persuaded by the argument that my position as spoiled domestic pet, with lap, bed and treat privileges, frequent walks, and one-on-one attention to all my needs, is a more or less acceptable substitute...

Happy Nature Friday friends! 

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Yoicks and Tally Ho!

Well my friends, I might not have got quite so many Christmas presents as most of you did (yes, Sweet William, you are so right about Gail being a bit of a Scrooge), but let me tell you, my Boxing Day outing more than made up for any meagre haul from "Santa".

Of course you know that I am a fox terrier and my kind were originally bred to take part in the traditional English sport of fox-hunting. Our role was to unearth foxes that had gone to ground when being pursued by the hunt.

Now some of you may be aware that since 2004, more's the pity*, the hounds are no longer allowed to tear their quarry to shreds, and us terriers play no part at all in what these days is basically a gallop across the fields, either following an artificially laid scent or ending up with a fox being shot.

But it remains a strong tradition in South Nottinghamshire for the local fox hunting fraternity to gather in the village of Car Colston for the annual  'Boxing Day Meet'. Many's the time Gail has told me how it was an important part of her family Christmas festivities to drive out from their suburban home and enjoy this spectacle, in the days when 'real' fox hunting was still permitted'.

You can imagine how excited I was when she suggested we go along this year to Car Colston to see what this event looks like in 2014.

And when I caught sight of the splendidly turned out huntsmen (and women and children) astride their handsome mounts, I gazed enviously at the pack of hounds baying at the horses' hooves, and every single one of my wiry terrier hairs stood on end as, in my mind, I re-enacted my ancestral role...

*Gail says: please remember, those of a sensitive disposition, that this is the terrier perspective...

Fox hunting: my true vocation?

The South Notts Hunt meet on Boxing Day 2012 at Car Colston

Spending an afternoon in the office last week (see previous post) set me to thinking about my breed's ancestral role.

Did you know that us wire haired fox terriers were once an integral part of the English fox hunting tradition?

I don't know if readers outside the UK are aware that hunting foxes with dogs is, controversially, now banned in this country. It's all very confusing 'cos, as you see from the picture above, huntsmen - and women - do still ride out with a pack of hounds. Only these days, they follow an artificially laid trail rather than chase real live foxes. At least that's what is supposed to happen.

Gail tells me that when was a child the whole family used to drive out to watch the South Notts Hunt's Boxing Day meet. It was a thrilling occasion, and the country lanes were jammed with 'townies' in festive mood, trying to follow by car as the riders as the tore over the fields, hedgerows and ditches of the flat Midlands countryside in pursuit of their prey.

But even in those ancient times (the 1960's) there were no terriers involved. You have to go back another hundred years to the days when us WFT's were used to 'bolt' any foxes that went to ground, to flush out the fox, so the horses and hounds could continue the chase.

Have you ever tried pulling one of my breed by the tail? Typically, we don't mind a bit. Gail has always found it odd that, whereas apparently my predecessor Hamish the Westie would go ballistic if you so much as touched his tail, I don't react at all, even if she yanks mine quite hard. Her friend Kirsty the Vet says this is a throwback to when we were bred for being pulled backwards out of foxholes by our docked tails. (Tail docking is now also banned).

Oh how I would have loved to take part in a hunt.

In Nottingham over Christmas, when out for a suburban walk late one evening, I caught sight of a real live fox.

Grrrr. I could have shown those hounds a thing or two. But, can you believe, a certain spoilsport refused point blank to let me off the lead...