Buzzosaurus to the Max, by BUZZ

Hi Everyone. Buzz here.

Ummmm, Happy Flag Day.

Today J would like me to  pay homage to that enduring and beautiful symbol of strength, hard work, pride, sentimentality, loyalty, love and fearlessness:  the flag Jack Russell Terrier.  We Jacks descend from sturdy British stock, just like so many of those Revolutionary War heros.   I see that now the AKC calls my show ring counterparts, “Parson Russell Terriers.”  Well boo times two and a cardboard bone to them.  Parson?  And just how cool is it when you are at a truck stop, as I have been, and a big old tattooed trucker in a pair of overalls says to me, “Hi Parson.”  !  I think not.   Compare that to “Hi, Jack,” which has a pirate-like sound to it, much cooler. HIJACK.  Which is exactly what I have done to J’s idea of a Flag Day blog. Heh.

Speaking of pirates and hijacking. On February 13 2010, my life of leisure was hijacked by a black and white blur, a crazy mixed up mutt who JK felt needed to live with us.  I don’t recall being consulted in the matter. Just one day, there he was. 

The pup and me...March 2010

 My philosophy regarding anything I don’t care to deal with is to pretend it’s not there. For instance, JK will say, Time for our walk, Buzzy.  What? Did someone say something?  So that’s how I handled the pup. As far as I was concerned, he wasn’t there.  It wasn’t MY deal.  JK were in for a training treat, and I was there to watch the show. 

A couple days after he moved in, the pup and I were outside.  I was dozing on the deck in the sun, and he was doing his usual random nosing around the yard.  I opened my eyes to see him standing there in the grass, a miniature black and white Holstein contemplatively chewing a disgusting coprophagic cud. (Mine, by the way. He never touched his own.) Oh, this was going to be good.  Just then J looked out the window.  What the…she ran out the door and down the deck steps. Maxwell! What is that? Gross! No! Drop!  He swallowed it and grinned at her.  Disgusting in the extreme. We all went back indoors, the pup not the least bit reprimanded; and J picked up her red laptop and typed into Google:  Dog Eating Poop.

Later J told K all about it.  I suspect it’s stress-related, she said, probably with all the changes.  I’ll just keep the yard cleaned up and try to keep him exercised so he’s tired enough. 

Yowza. Good luck with that.  

And I was right. He kept doing it. And then, when his nervous stomach finally relaxed at night when he fell asleep in the living room, JK discovered a whole new world of Death by SBD, noxious gases so pungent that they were sometimes driven from their narcoloungers, tears streaming down their faces,  to gasp in the fresh air on the front porch.  It was a bit awkward when guests came for dinner.  And yet in true JRT style, they soldiered on. 

About two months in, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I broke my vow of silence.  “Look,” I said to the pup one afternoon as he sniffed around the yard for what he vulgarly referred to as “doody call”, “What you’re doing is unbecoming to the breed.  Your JRT side is better than that. You’re embarrassing yourself.  Leave it be.” He stared at me with that cross-eyed look he has.  But something must have gotten through, probably my natural take-charge attitude, because he stopped that day and never did it again.  JK were thrilled that their training methods had worked.  I knew just a little extra exercise would help, J said to K. I’m proud of you, hon, he replied, and it’s probably too that he’s more at home now, less stressed.

Weren’t we all.  I took a nap. The SBDs have dwindled to almost nothing, but now and again, when the pup gets nervous, we still can pay a pretty price. 

Walks were another sweet treat. Imagine me, debonair,  having to be part of the clown parade that our walks became. For a while there, J carried a tennis racket, for Pete’s sake, to put in front of the pup’s face so he couldn’t get past her to pull, and jump at cars, and jerk the leash trying to get his collar off.  I thought I was a tough leash train, but as is typical of our breed, I learned “Heel” in just a couple days. I have to hand it to the pup. His Border collie side fought that leash from Day One.  Our walks became battles of the wills, and between those three, that is a LOT of will.  JK despaired that the pup would ever understand the basic good manners of the Walked Dog. As usual, I set the perfect example, well, maybe I would lag a bit, but who wouldn’t?  “I’m not with them.  Really, I’m not.”

Even my pep pup talks didn’t do much to resolve the situation.  “What is your deal, kid?” I asked him one evening.  “Just stroll. That’s all there is to it. Stroll. Breakfast. Nap.”  He said he just couldn’t. The smells were too strong and the cars were too fast and the barking dogs were too loud and the collar was too tight and the leash was too short and the -oh is that my squeaky toy under the couch I wondered where it went.  

Enter the Gentle Leader. JK were watching Animal Planet one evening and saw a show where three large German Shepherds were quieted instantly by wearing the GL.  I’m happy to report that it transformed our walks and even though the pup still balks at having it put on, he’s really good about it and JK give just the right amount of praise.  They started letting him off the leash after I discussed the benefits of Coming When Called with him.  Think back to a year ago, K said to J the other day.  I never thought it would ever get to the point that Maxwell could be off the leash. I have to admit, it was hard work, but it turned out great for all of us.

You’re welcome.

Now we’re working on his fears. OK, I admit I hate a thunderstorm as much as the next dog, but the pup tends to lose his mind. And that thing with the Harley.  What in the heck.  Yeah, it’s loud. But it’s a machine. The pup sees it as some huge adversary. 

“Look,” I told him the other night as we laid on the bathroom rug listening to thunder, “There are always going to be storms. Just come in here and lie on the circley rug and sleep til it’s over." 

"And as far as the Harley, it’s here to stay for quite some time. My advice is to add the word ‘squirrel’ to everything you’re afraid of. Thundersquirrelstorm.  Harley-Davidsquirrelson.  Popcornsquirrelpopper.  Firesquirrelworks.  You see?”  He swallowed hard and nodded.  

“And my other advice,” I continued, “is to tap into that JRT side where you see yourself as a gigantic dinosaur. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is bigger than your courage. That’s the JRT way. You’re the dinosaur, and the thunderstorm is a tiny little squirrel.  Maxosaurus vs thundersquirrelstorm, if you will. You’re still a little nervous, aren’t you…it’ll get better, but now, I really, really need to get out onto the porch. Get some fresh air.”  We went out together to find JK.

He’s still a whippersnapper of a pup.  But he’s MY whippersnapper. And things are looking up.