A brush with nature (wiry coat needed)

I'm pleased to report that a revised interpretation of our government's social distancing guidelines says you can drive somewhere to exercise so long as your exercise time is much longer than your car journey.

So this week Gail had the bright idea of taking me to explore a bit of Durris Forest about half an hour's drive from our house. She chose a route we'd not done before, in a little frequented part of the forest.

It was all going so well...

...until we veered off the main track and tried to follow a footpath marked on the map but less clear at ground level...

Did you know that wire-haired fox terriers were bred to have coarse, wiry coats to protect them from getting scratched by the undergrowth when pursuing foxes to earth?

I think Gail was feeling a little envious of my furs by the time we regained the proper track!

Happy Nature Friday friends! And thanks once again to our dear friends Arty, Jakey and Rosy for hosting this our favourite blog hop.

Foxtrot Alpha?

Does size matter? Or age?

It is well known that us dogs, as a species, come in all shapes and sizes.

As I walked into the park on Sunday morning, I spotted a pretty Rottweiler with a pink collar. A newcomer. Unlike her companion, a notably relaxed German shepherd whom we see quite often, this pup was kept on a lead. I bounced over to say hello. She smelled nice. Better than nice in fact.

Their accompanying human (a genial-faced chap Gail would like to know better but their small talk has never before got further than "nice day" and "handsome dog") explained that the Rottie belongs to his son, and she is eight months old and having her first 'season'.

Just as I was evaluating in my mind the practicalities of attempting to mount this large and attractively feisty lass, Gail clamped on my lead and forcibly dragged me out of lunging range, saying, "I'd better make sure my intact male dog stays well clear of her then!"

Then Gail rudely added that this particular bitch was too big and too young for me anyway.

But surely such tedious rules are not applicable to the older alpha male (human or canine)...

John and Sally Bercow - courtesy of Daily Mail 

Once out of sniffing range, my distracted mind turned to wondering what a Rottweiler x Wire-Haired Fox Terrier puppy might look like anyway. Would the cross-breed have special name? A Wiry-Weiler perhaps? No, even better, a Foxtrot!

Sadly, as it seems I won't be getting the opportunity to conduct this particular experiment myself any time soon, I resorted to searching for 'Rottweiler/Fox Terrier mix' on the internet, and found these two pups.

Aren't they just adorable?

FFF: Talitha's Tail/Tale

Today I, Bertie, am entering YAM-Aunty's Final Friday Fiction challenge.

The source text is P.G. Wodehouse's 'The Code of the Woosters', and the phrases (from p87) to be used in the story are:

Line 8:  I noted that he was looking at me oddly

Line 12: filling in till...

Line 16: ...had better go and inform...

I have to confess that in my enthusiasm I have by some margin exceeded the recommended 500 word limit, but I am confident you will want to read on through to the story's dramatic denouement.

Talitha’s Tail/Tale

I, wire-haired fox terrier Talitha, could tell from the minute I was able to open my eyes that my litter-mate Lucy-fur was a piece of work.

Granted, she was a pretty thing. As wee pups, she and I were judged by our breeder to hold great promise as future show dogs, both being true to our breed type and with perfectly set WFT tails, so we were not put up for sale. But somehow it was obvious to all that I was the one with that special quality, and destined to be a star in the show ring.

Of course it didn’t take long for Lucy-fur to twig that folk tended to favour me. “Oh look, isn’t that Talitha just such a character, she really is such a adorable, sparky wire-haired fox terrier”. Such comments directed towards me were common, and not one bit appreciated by my sister.

One day when we were a few months old, Lucy-fur and I were playing outside in the nearby field, and Lucy-fur dared me to jump over a deep muddy ditch. “Bet you can’t do it Talitha, you’re just a wimp!” she taunted me. I was a tad reckless in those days and overestimated the strength of my rapidly growing, pipe cleaner legs. I took a running jump and failed to clear the water.

You will never convince me that Lucy-fur was unaware of the rusty old lawn mower hidden at the bottom of the ditch.

Oh the pain when my tail got caught in the mower blade!  I squealed and squealed as I tried and failed to free myself. Lucy-fur looked on with an ill-concealed smirk and said “Oh Talitha, what a shame, I had better go and inform our breeder of your predicament”. The upshot was that my perfect WFT tail was so badly damaged that it had to be docked to an inch long stump. I was then no longer eligible for the show ring, so the breeder decided to sell me after all, and I went to live with a nice man called Frank.

To be honest, I was not sorry to be shot of Lucy-fur, but oh how I did regret missing out on the glamour of life as a show dog. I would have so loved all the attention and excitement…

By the time I was three years old, my owner Frank and I had developed the sort of telepathic bond not uncommon between human and pup. So that year, when I spotted Lucy-fur on TV, prancing around the show ring in the terrier group at Crufts, and I started to bark and howl with a passion, Frank understood the cause of my distress, that all I wanted in life was to be a show dog, and that I would not easily accept my fate as a mere pet with a docked tail.

Oh what it is to have a resourceful and creative owner! You will never guess what Frank did next.

On eBay he purchased one of those fox terrier wheelie dogs (at great expense, I understand). He cut off the tail and stuck it on my poor old stump. It took a bit of practice with glue and some concealed supports, but after a few attempts, I was proud possessor of a perfectly formed and eminently waggable WFT tail, and ready to enter the show ring. It has to be said that in private, the false tail was always carefully removed. In truth it was not so very comfortable to wear.

Well you will not be surprised at all to learn that I aced the qualifying shows and made it to Crufts the following year. I was four years old and in my prime. And who should I meet an hour before the fox terrier class was due in the ring? Why Lucy-fur of course! My tail had just been glued on and I was standing around taking in the atmosphere, filling in time till the glue set. I noted that she was looking at me oddly, but thought nothing more of it.

It is hard to decide whether it was winning the WFT class or simply coming ahead of my arch enemy Lucy-fur which gave me more pleasure. To gain victory in the next round, competing against all the other breeds of terrier, was to my mind a formality. And so it proved.

I was in the Final, with a shot at Best in Show!

So proud and thrilled was I to have come this far, that I didn’t spot Lucy-fur, who had slipped her collar, lurking in the shadows as I waited patiently to be called into the arena one last time.

Suddenly Lucy-fur pounced, and growling with satanic venom, she dug her teeth into my false tail, and wrenched it away from the stump. She then ran off and disappeared out of the building while everyone was staring at me in horror. The skin on my stump was badly torn in the attack, and was bleeding profusely, and so no-one in the crowd of anxious onlookers suspected that the missing tail had not been real.

Of course, I was unable to continue in the competition. But friends, do not imagine for one minute that I was disappointed by the way my show career ended so abruptly. I was more than satisfied with my brief moment in the limelight. And what became of Lucy-fur? After a few weeks she was recognised rummaging in some municipal rubbish dump on the periphery of Birmingham. She was disowned by her breeders, and, on the basis of ‘unreliable temperament’, disqualified from ever again taking part in a dog show.

A most satisfactory outcome all round, and I lived quietly and happily ever after as a much loved and tail-free pet.

THE END

Click here for links to the other Final Friday Fiction pieces. 

Is it OK...

… for your human to wear a picture of you on her socks?

And how about when she goes to work?

Oh and I would like to point out to clothing retailer Hobbs that wire-haired fox terriers have russet ears, not black.

PS Just a reminder, it is not too late to contribute to my important and very scientific research into dog and human fitness (see previous post).

Best birthday party ever!

Oh I just have to tell you all about Human Granny's birthday lunch.

You can imagine how honoured I felt to be invited along to join the party. We went to this tip top restaurant called Biondi Bistro, by Gunthorpe Lock. You can eat outside in a nicely sheltered courtyard area, so it's both dog and granny friendly. Perfect!

Look, here I am with, left to right, Human Granny, Gail, her brother Max and my smart and pretty human cousin Annabel.

That Biondi Bistro is the classiest of classy joints should be clear when you see who was at the table next to us.

Yes, not just one but TWO fellow wire fox terriers!

Handsome pups aren't they?

And all three of us were super well behaved, we really were!

PS Don't forget to stop by for the Pawlympics Munro Bagging event on Tuesday. Honestly, I am ready for a break from what Gail will insist on calling the 'real' Olympics. I mean, I ask you, just what is so interesting anyway about watching humans pedalling their bicycles round and round in circles for, seemingly, ever and ever...?

Best birthday party ever!

Oh I just have to tell you all about Human Granny's birthday lunch.

You can imagine how honoured I felt to be invited along to join the party. We went to this tip top restaurant called Biondi Bistro, by Gunthorpe Lock. You can eat outside on a nicely sheltered patio area, so it's both dog and granny friendly. Perfect!

Look, here I am with, left to right, Human Granny, Gail, her brother Max and my smart and pretty human cousin Annabel.

That Biondi Bistro is the classiest of classy joints should be clear when you see who was at the table next to us.

Yes, not just one but TWO fellow wire fox terriers!

Handsome pups aren't they?

And all three of us were super well behaved, we really were!

PS Don't forget to stop by for the Pawlympics Munro Bagging event on Tuesday. Honestly, I am ready for a break from what Gail will insist on calling the 'real' Olympics. I mean, I ask you, just what is so interesting about watching humans pedalling their bicycles round and round in circles for, seemingly, ever and ever...?

Aberdeen Park Talk 2016

So after a solo romp around the park (no dawdling) I joined my Saturday morning pals and their humans.

While engaging in routine greetings, I overheard snippets of the humans' conversation:

"Still working?"
"Job hanging by a thread"
"Mine too. Only eleven days billable so far this year"
"Rate cuts of 10% in the offing"
"10%, you're lucky, I'm down 40%"
"More redundancies coming up at BP"
"And yet Bob Dudley's still paid £14 million"
"North Sea's finished, our vessel's heading to Angola for six weeks; the wife'll be walking Tassie"

It was all getting too depressing. So when I spotted my wiry pal Murphy by the gate, I bounced over to say hello.

Boy, that's some haircut, I remarked.

I don't need reminding Bertie, came the plaintive response, didn't you notice it snowed last night? Spring in Scotland, huh!

But then Murphy spotted a jogger and livened up considerably.

You can't keep a good WFT down for long…

Comparisons are odious?

Did you know it was Gail's birthday last week?

It's always fun, isn't it, to look at the cards and decide which you like best.

Such a difficult choice, this time around.

I thought we had a clear winner, when I saw this one from our friends Margaret and Jeffrey.


Splendid, don't you think? A handsome fellow isn't he? And such a jolly neckerchief.

But then Gail opened the envelope postmarked Nottingham. Human Granny had earlier dropped a hint that she'd found a very special card for Gail.

And this was it.


A wire-haired fox terrier sitting in front of a bicycle!

Yes I can see why this image might be considered especially fitting for Gail.

The WFT guy even looks a bit like me, wouldn't you say? Personally I would have preferred it if he had been allowed to pose without any distracting objects in the background, but I guess at least the bike is behind and not in front of him.

Perhaps if I set the cards side by side it will be easier to select the 'winner'.


I wonder what my friends think?

Oh. Gail is telling me that if Human Grandad (who also had a November birthday) had read this he would have frowned and said: "Bertie, comparisons are odious"...

WFTs come first, right?

I have to tell you that Gail is worried she was being inconsiderate to our fellow passengers on the 12:52 train from Newark North Gate to Edinburgh last Monday. In fact, she wishes to make an apology.

I have spent all week trying to tell her she did nothing wrong. Nothing at all.

I mean, how can she be to blame if the lady with the refreshments trolley was all over me like a rash no soon as she'd spotted me in the aisle (or rather, nearly reversed into me, truth to tell)?

The fact that this lovely lady, herself a wire-haired fox terrier owner, stopped to engage in a lengthy WFT-based conversation with Gail is entirely a Good Thing, in my opinion.

So what if the passengers further down the carriage were hungry and thirsty? One could say Gail did them a favour by helping them avoid the temptation to pay a king's ransom for lukewarm coffee and a tired sandwich.

The wiry theme continued when we took a break in Edinburgh to meet my pal Horatio, plus his Vizsla brother Harris and human Amanda. It was a damp and blustery afternoon for a romp up the slippery volcanic rocks of Arthur's Seat. Gail seemed particularly keen to stay away from any ponds and avoid a repeat of the Green Dog incident….

Can you tell Horatio and me apart?

The onward train from Edinburgh didn't arrive in Aberdeen until late evening and, would you believe it, just as we were about to disembark, Gail spotted a smaller version of your truly in the adjacent carriage. Turns out she is called Poppy, is eight months old, very cute (of course) and, like me, started life at Granddach Kennels.

All in all, I'd say it was a pretty perfect day. And absolutely no apologies are necessary.

A 'Wowzer' or a 'Schnoxy'?

See this handsome fellow we met at Hazlehead Park last weekend.

His owners told Gail he was 'just a mix' of schnauzer and wire-haired fox terrier.

Would you like to be called 'just a mix?'

I'm sure that labradoodles and cockerpoos do not consider themselves 'just a mix'.

Gail thought perhaps our friend here could be called a 'schnoxy'.

Myself, I prefer 'wauzer' (pronounced 'wowzer' ) as having greater impact.

Do you have any suggestions?

 

PS Can you believe Gail said some folk might think the WFT temperament needs a bit of diluting!!??

All aboard the WFT Express!

Gail and I travelled down to Nottingham last Friday, to check up on Human Granny.

It's a long train journey, and by Montrose I'd had enough of my chew and was feeling a bit bored, so I 'suggested' to Gail that she take me a walk down the carriages, to meet and greet our fellow passengers.

Imagine our delight when we spotted this wee wiry fellow enjoying a window seat and a cuddle.

He was a bit shy at first, but  I soon won him round.

I learned that his name is Jimmy and he is twelve years old. He is quite a bit smaller than me, and has an enviably smart haircut. 

We stopped for a break in Edinburgh before heading on south. Even outside of Festival times, there are strange sights in Scotland's capital.  

I know that many of my kind friends will be concerned about Human Granny. She is doing OK, and I'll tell you more about my visit in my next post.

PS Gail, pedantic as ever, is quibbling about my title today, saying that in no way could any train between Aberdeen and Edinburgh, stopping at Stonehaven, Montrose, Arbroath, Carnoustie, Dundee, Leuchars, Cupar, Kirkcaldy and Inverkeithing, be described as an 'Express'...

On Westminster winner Sky (and why my heart belongs to Addi)

Several friends have brought to my attention the fact that a wire-haired fox terrier named Sky was Best in Show at the Westminster dog show (the USA's version of Crufts) this year.

We can all agree she is a spectacular looking wee lass.

Now I have been feeling a bit upset that Gail vetoed my getting involved with all the Valentine's Day business this year, with that lame "too busy at work" excuse with which many of us are so familiar.

Long time readers will know that my special sweetheart is Addi from Illinois. The most beautiful big-boned American Bulldog you ever could meet.

 Addi, I want you to know that you are still the tops.

Not for me a girl with candy floss for legs.

Can you imagine a date with Sky?

"Ew no Bertie, I cannot come with you for a rampage across a Highland bog. I need at least four more hours on the grooming table before I could possibly show my face to the world. And by the way, were you aware that the set and shape of your tail does not conform to the breed standard? Please run along and fetch my nail varnish. And I suppose you think that's funny, offering me a lift in a tank..."

Time to check Horatio's leg lifting progress

Once again, I'm bursting with excitement.

Guess who came to see us last week?

Horatio's 'mum', Mandy, that's who!  And she brought me this super smart bandana, all the way from Scotland's capital.

Those are Mandy's legs in the background

I was a bit disappointed at first that my wiry pal Horatio wasn't with her. After all, I could have given him a master class in how to resist having a bandana tied around one's neck. On top of a refresher leg lifting tutorial of course. Apparently he sometimes gets confused and lifts his front leg...

But anyway, I cheered up hugely on learning that I'll be meeting with Horatio and all his family next Sunday. They are going to be staying by Loch Muick for a week. I've been poring over the map and trying to decide on a good route for a walk.

Loch Muick is on the Queen's Balmoral Estate.

WFTs versus Corgis, anyone?

Oh I just can't wait!

Sympathy for bankers after my haircut...

Gail has warned me that today's title might be inflammatory.

Well I am a terrier, and it is not in my nature to back away from a confrontation.

You see, I heard this week, apropos the debt crisis in Greece, that the banks have been forced to have another haircut.

By an amazing co-incidence, I too have been enduring a haircut this week.

It is not my idea of fun.

To be strictly accurate, for the most part my hair is not cut, it is 'hand stripped' (by special stripping knife rather than literally by hand). Gail persists in the delusion that this is a skill she will eventually master. Meanwhile....

I have noticed that she has developed a strategy of starting with my neck area, then moving backwards. Now I will admit, it's quite a pleasant feeling, all that pressing and plucking action around the neck. A bit like a massage. One can feel relaxed. Having lulled me into a false sense of security, Gail then moves onto my black patch. This is not so relaxing, but Gail insists, "Oh it's worth it Bertie, think of all those people we meet who admire your markings and wonder how it is that your patches are black not grey like so many other wire-haired fox terriers".

Perhaps I should include a wee technical explanation here.

See this photo below. They are some of the old hairs Gail stripped from my back this afternoon.

See how the hairs change colour half way down. The tips are black and the root ends pale grey. If my hair were cut not stripped then the black would be all removed and my markings would be a boring grey colour. Which, as Gail says, would impress no-one.  Except perhaps the odd schnauzer owner.

Now I can't help but remark that it is Gail who basks in the glory from having a dog with a coat that other humans admire, and me who has to put up with all the tugging. "But Bertie" Gail says "you gain too, your beautiful glossy wiry coat is so much more waterproof for not having been sheared."

Well that's as maybe, but really there are limits to what one will tolerate, for vanity or weather resistance. 

When Gail moves on towards my nether regions, the stripping action is most uncomfortable, and I let her know it. At this point I am suspecting her of fantasizing that she is giving this sort of a 'haircut' to Sir Mr Fred Goodwin. 

Fortunately, before too long, she puts down the stripping knife and out come the scissors. Phew.

I wonder if my friends are put through all this malarkey?  

PS I asked Gail if she would take an 'after' photo of me, but she said, Bertie, the sad truth is, despite the fact I seem to have removed half a dog, you don't actually look that different. So I said, oh go on Gail, take one anyway. 

And here it is.

PS Gail would like to point out that all she is aiming for with Bertie's coat is a modicum of tidiness, and not a 'show grade' outcome!