Thanks a bunch Reverend Russell

Chapter 15: Let me take you by the hand…

§ March 8th, 2010 § Filed under chapter § Tagged canine communication, communication, dog language, jack russell, jrt, terrier § No Comments

Humans are notoriously slow-witted. By the time we would understand what a Jack Russell means, were he to use normal dog communication, we would have exhausted even a Jack Russell’s patience. It is fortunate for the Jack Russell then that he is equipped with an adaptability that would put even rats to shame. If humans don’t speak Jack Russell, the Jack Russell will learn to speak some dialect of human. And he will learn this very quickly as well.

Even as a pup, Pluk swiftly learned what was where in any new surroundings. Be it a new home or a temporary holiday location, Pluk knew where the interesting bits were to be found. The fridge, the closet where the food was stored and of course the ever present garbage can. He also knew when treats had been bought, which was by no means a regular thing as treats tended to over excite him.

There is one treat in particular that made him rather weak at the knees and which he devoured with fanatical abandon: dried pig’s ears. I know these are faintly gross to our modern human sensibilities but to the Jack Russell they may just be the most tasty bit of the whole hog.

As a consequence of this, the pig’s ears were always put behind lock and key and high up on a shelve. And even then we kept a wary eye on their position in relation to Pluk’s jaws because we found out very early on that pig’s ears and Pluk are inseparable once the two connect.

The first time we bought pig’s ears, the ears seemed bigger than the pup. We had bought them more as a chewable toy than as food but Pluk thought that was a daft idea. He ran off with the ear and no force in the world was capable of dislodging that ear from his jaws ever again.

This resulted in a bit of a tussle, remember these were the days we naively thought we had bought a dog as opposed to a terrier and we thought that something like this should be given up when he was commanded to. This made Pluk decide to show us our error by using kamikaze tactics: he tried to swallow the ear in one piece rather than give it up. Have you ever seen a Boa Constrictor swallow a prey twice its size? A Jack Russell smiles condescendingly at such a scene and steps up to the plate, “Nice try, amateur, now let a professional handle this.”

After that first near choking disaster, we decided to dole out treats and especially pig’s ears in small doses and cut them up in manageable sizes.

This taught Pluk that to make his wishes known to us he needed a more subtle and a more diplomatic approach. The kamikaze way clearly had its downsides as this resulted in the cutting up of the prize. He would have to learn to speak our language. Or at least he had to learn how to make his wishes known to us in such a way that there was no possibility of misunderstanding him. For this he employed several tricks. How he learned them I have no idea. I can only conclude that he observed humanity, learned from what he saw and then applied what he had learned to achieve his goals.

One such trick involved using facial expressions that were near human. Joy, sadness, disappointment, fear, anger, I have seen them all in situations that would call for a human expression rather than a canine one. Always supremely appropriate to the situation.

Another trick was plain diplomacy. Never a stickler for rules it is strange to suddenly see a Jack Russell behave exemplary. But a Jack Russell knows there are two results from acting as if he is a well trained Labrador: the first is that his owners become less vigilant and the second is that the uninitiated will fall for that cute little face and that wagging little tail quicker than a brick receiving flying lessons.

The resulting goodwill can be used to get one’s way; usually a few crumbs of that delicious looking cooky your eating.

Pluk also learned how to use his whole body to point at what he wanted. There are entire breeds founded on this one ability but I have no doubt whatsoever that the average Jack Russell would be able to give a pointer a run for its money if only Jack Russells could be persuaded to point at what we want instead of what they themselves want. Alas, that will never happen.

Occasionally a new statue materialised in our living room. It was a statue of a Jack Russell whose nose, straight back and flat tail, formed the spitting image of an arrow pointing in a very specific direction. Usually this was the door of the storage cupboard where the dog food and treats were stored. The beauty of this was that he did not just point in the general direction of the door but pointed at the key which opens de door. Not only did he understand how a door works, he also understood that the only reason he could not open the door himself was that it was locked. He had decided that a treat was overdue and he tried to remind us of our errant ways, telling us in passing that it was only due to the key having been turned in the lock that he had to trouble us for this minor issue.

Another regular instance of body language which can not be misunderstood happened during sunny days. Even if only one ray of sunlight entered the room Pluk was in it. However, the floor was not the most comfortable place to lie on, so instead he went to the sunny spot, stood there and assumed a very patient stance. It might take a while but one of the humans in the room was bound to notice a terrier standing at an unusual spot with his back turned, just waiting.

If something like a magazine stand or ornamental bowl happened to be in the sunny spot, he just climbed the object and managed to garner our attention a little more quickly. With a little bit of luck the humans understood that a cushion or some other doggy bed might be a lot more comfortable than the bare floor planks or the magazine stand. And he was usually right.

But if all else failed, if the humans just did not see your point you had to resort to even more unambiguous methods. You ended up having to take the dunces by the hand and lead them. Literally. Pluk had learned to take a finger or some other part of our hand in his mouth and lead us to the desired spot. And he enjoyed this game so much that he often took a rather elaborate detour. So we were often led on a tour around the house, on which we moved bend over like an impersonation of Quasimodo. Sometimes we were led from the front door to where the other canine resident’s lair was situated, which meant Pluk felt like walkies. Or sometimes we were led around all the occupants of the room, which meant it was time for a group hug.

And yet, occasionally, even a Jack Russell fails to make a human understand what his needs are. Humans can be pretty thick on occasion. You twist your face, you point, you lead them by the hand and still they do not understand. Or maybe your wants of the moment have their roots in the realm of the insubstantial, the imaginary. In that case there is only one route left open to you: talk about it. Enthusiastically and energetically explain to your human owners what has crossed your mind. Just stand there and orate.

Although Jack Russells have not learned our speech – yet – they do have a capacity for approximating it. Pluk used to produce a sound that was not a growl and not a bark. It had many tonal elements and might be best likened to the creak of a heavy door opening. When listened to carefully one could even distinguish sentences and words.

What this language meant exactly, I have never learned but it was definitely an attempt at trying to communicate with us. Pluk used this when he wanted something but had failed to get his point across. He would stand in front of you, look you straight in the eyes and begin a long oration about why he should be granted his wishes. All the time he wagged his tail just to make sure that any misunderstandings resulting from his strange dialect were meant in the most friendly and well meaning way.

In the end though, a Jack Russell almost always gets his way. Whether he has been successful in communicating with us or not. Sheer stubborn tenacity will get a Jack Russell whatever he wants or wherever he wants to go. Even if asking for it first was either not understood or has met with a negative reply. After all, the deal with humans is being negotiated on an ongoing basis and a misunderstanding or a firm ‘no’ on one specific occasion has no bearing whatsoever on what ostensibly seems to be the same situation five minutes later but is in fact a totally new set of circumstances. Which needs to be re-negotiated as a matter of course.

Good language skills are paramount to owning a Jack Russell because Jack Russells learn very quickly that we will never speak ‘dog’ so they will invent their own hybrid language to make their wishes known to us. The average Jack Russell owner will need to learn several new languages during the Jack Russell’s tenure if a harmonious diplomatic atmosphere is to be maintained. Diplomacy is a matter of give and take and for you to be able to give and for the Jack Russell to take, both of you will need to find a common language. As per usual, the Jack Russell will learn rather more quickly than his human cohabitants.

Some pics of a walk in the forest on this first spring feeling day

§ March 2nd, 2010 § Filed under photos § Tagged deerhound, dogs, photos, spring, terrier § No Comments

From Canine pics

Chapter 14: In sickness and in health (draft)

§ March 1st, 2010 § Filed under chapter § Tagged canine, dogs, jack russell, jrt, pets, training § 1 Comment

From an early age I was imprinted with a sense of obligation towards living creatures I took into my care. It did not matter whether it concerned a family of common stick insects in a terrarium, a rabit or a dog, once you decided to take care of an animal you did so for the lifetime of the creature concerned. One makes one’s choices in life and lives with the consequences. For better of for worse, in sickness and in health.

Living with a Jack Russell terrier does test one’s commitment to this philosophy. Not that we ever considered handing back our Pluk from whence he came, not for a second; but he did have a knack for researching the limits of our patience. With hindsight it was just one of those things a Jack Russell is required to undertake once he joins a human family. A Jack Russell has the obligation to extend the collective knowledge of that weird race humanity. This knowledge will feed into the collective hive mind that Jack Russell terriers seem to share.

Pluk could get into the most fearful scraps with other dogs, often many times his size but never with a Jack Russell. On meeting a Jack Russell a polite exchange of sniffs and wiggles of tails would be about as much excitement as would be observed. Then, depending on the outcome of some secret code of acceptance I have never learned to fathom, the Jack’s would either engage in a mutual undertaking or go their separate ways. I can not remember Pluk getting into a serious scrap with a fellow Jack Russell.

So the patience of humans was scientifically tested and the human reaction to these tests were duly noted, often with no more than a shrug. At first these tests were done under cover of cuteness. But once the puppy stage was over the tests took on a more open character and a new cover needed to be found. Especially as the tests were carried out more frequently now that adulthood gave one a certain standing. The new cover was humour. The book that tells Jack Russells how to raise humans must have at least one chapter dedicated to our understanding of humour and how it differs from that of the Jack Russell.

Of course we humans do not have much of a sense of humour. At least not in the eyes of a Jack Russell. Ours lacks a certain flair, a certain amount of ‘joie de vivre’. Often times we take life a little too seriously.

We manage to see the joke most of the time and with patience, we can be taught to interpret that cheeky face looking up at us with a tail wagging furiously in our peripheral vision, as body language for a smile. However, the difference in senses of humour sometimes leaves too much of a chasm. Inevitably tempers flare sometimes, words are said that are regretted later and punishment is doled out with some undue severity.

The Jack Russell understands this. The collective hive mind tells him how to deal with this: learn to turn any bad situation into a profitable one. In other words, milk it for what its worth.

Jack Russells have a perfect understanding of a human’s sense of guilt. They know we never stay mad for long and they know we always feel immensely burdened once the storm has abated. This feeling of guilt can be exploited for comfortable gains. After the toil in the laboratory that is human society, a Jack Russell can rest assured in the credit earned during the day. Literally. An extra morsel of food, a comfortable spot on the couch, a prolonged petting, all extra’s that are the just rewards for a day of gaining knowledge in the service of Jack Russelldom.

But sometimes we humans do not see the point. Sometimes our mood is such that the Jack can not count on spontaneous guilt to do its job. A reminder is needed. A sign that crosses that gulf of understanding and signifies to the world, “I have been wronged!”

That sign is the famous three legged walk. Over time I have learned to read the signs and I see it in others. Whenever I see a Jack Russell walking on three legs I can surmise what has gone before. But in those early days we were less experienced in the ways of the Jack.

I can not remember the circumstances but the first time we saw Pluk pull this trick we were very worried. We must have had a slight misunderstanding about something trivial, like proprietary rights to the now eponymous trash can, and he must have been spoken to in harsher words than he felt justified.

In any case, when walking out with him that afternoon he hobbled along on three legs. The fact that he walked on three legs did not hamper his abilities in any way. He scooted about, sniffed here, barked there, all with the same agility he demonstrated on four legs.

Still a terrier walking on three legs is odd and slightly worrying to the world. People we met asked what was wrong with him to which the answer was a worried, “I have no idea, he was fine all morning.”

And he was. As a matter of fact he was physically fine at that very moment. It was not his leg that was in pain, it was his pride. It had been the first time that we had had a misunderstanding that had not cleared up by itself quickly enough. More severe measures were needed to signal to the wider world and to us that we were supposed to feel guilty about our falling out and that credit was due! The stratagem worked beautifully. It did not fail to gain him our pity and our guilt ridden expressions of love.

How can I be certain that this was just a trick and not some hidden malady? Well, as a matter of fact there is only circumstantial evidence but that circumstantial evidence is rather overwhelming. As soon as the trick had worked once, we were plunged into shamefacedly having to present a severely maltreated terrier to the outside world whenever an unjust altercation had ensued. When Pluk felt he had been wrongly judged, we walked a three legged terrier. A terrier which, when presenting a more advantageous profile to a rival demanded a more wholesome appearance, suddenly forgot all about his hurting leg. I have even on occasion noticed him transferring hurt from one leg to the other.

It is difficult to evaluate the seriousness of a Jack Russel’s ailments at the best of times. They are very tough little creatures but at the same time are no strangers to play acting. Especially when the acting may result in material or emotional gain. Unless the ailment was really serious, I could never entirely suppress a feeling of having been led on when I returned from the vet’s.

I remember going to the vet with a very sick little terrier. He had been throwing up all night and at four o’ clock in the morning I decided it had been enough and we called the vet. In the car over there he already transformed into a Jack on a mission.

I could almost hear him excitedly asking over and over again, “Where are we going, where are we going!”

On entering the practice he presented himself as loudly as was his want in those days, he did not like the vet and announced this fact with all his might. What entered the practice in no way resembled the picture of the sick dog I had presented on the telephone earlier. Luckily our vet knew terrier ways and took my description as serious enough for an examination. It turned out to probably be an infection of the intestines. Medication was administered, pills were bought and that was it. Home at 5 A.M.

Home with a terrier who showed all the signs of lingering enjoyment after an adventure. Only next time, could you please make sure it is not an outing to the vet? Still, an outing is an outing is an outing to paraphrase Oscar Wilde. He turned in and went to sleep peacefully.

The three legged scheme royally fooled us the first couple of times but after a while we caught on to the trick and ignored it. As by a miracle the hurting of the leg went away.

A proof of intelligence of the Jack Russell is the fact that once, when staying with my parents for a couple of days he applied the trick again. Although well known to us by then, we had failed to tell my parents about it. It had the desired result of lots of worry, treats and cuddles. When we came to fetch him my mother asked if he had something wrong with his leg, had we noticed this before?

I looked at her, comprehension suddenly dawning.

“Did you punish him for anything?”

“Well,” my mother said hesitantly. “Not very severely but he did try to get into the trash can once too often and I scolded him a little bit for it.”

I smiled.

“I wouldn’t worry about the leg,” I said and told her the whole story.

Although the three legged scam was now known and was not used very often anymore, on occasion Pluk tested our knowledge of his arsenal of tricks. And I must admit we fell for it sometimes.

Pluk playing with the new arrival from chapter 13

§ February 25th, 2010 § Filed under photos § Tagged deerhound, dogs, pets, play, terrier § No Comments

Here are some photos of Pluk and Jip at play. Jip is still very young and far from full grown. Her coat is still that of a young deerhound. She and Pluk quickly became very good friends as these pictures show. Also note her ears: when the ears of a deehound point forward like that, they are up to mischief! When these pictures were taken she still had to learn that Pluk could handle any mischief she was planning. And top it.

From Canine pics

Chapter 13: A new arrival (draft)

§ February 22nd, 2010 § Filed under chapter § Tagged appenzeller, deerhound, dogs, jack russell, pack, pets, terrier § 2 Comments

Most of the holidays of my youth were spent across the Channel somewhere in the British Isles. My mother had lived in Scotland for a year when she was young and later my parents lived in Vancouver, B.C., Canada where my sister was born. The pull across the Channel to an English speaking country was strong.

The magic of Scotland grabbed me from a young age and has, until this day, not left me. On one of our holidays in the Scottish Highlands near Inverness I met my first deerhound. We rented a crofters cottage, the owner of which had a rag tag assembly of dogs. As I loved dogs as much then as I do now I had an immediate rapport with them. The most striking figure among this bunch of hooligans was a stately being, somewhat remote from the rest. I fell in love with her at first sight and her silhouette was imprinted on my brain forever.

This memory was reinforced when, still living in the flat, we first visited our vet. With a trembling Jack Russell pup we sat in the waiting room. On the wall were photo’s of deerhounds and what later were identified as Irish wolfhounds. Our vet turned out to breed deerhounds and his wife bred wolfhounds. I waxed enthusiastically about my first encounter with a deerhound and our vet nodded sympathetically. Once smitten with this breed, they will never leave you.

When we moved into our new house with garden and forests nearby an opportunity seemed to present itself for another dog to enter the household. We occasionally had Chico during my parents’ holiday – as they had Pluk during ours – and two dogs seemed to me the perfect number. I talked it over with B. and we came to the conclusion that addition to our pack might be a good idea.

On one of our routine visits to the vet we must have casually mentioned this, because one Wednesday evening the phone rang. It was the vet’s wife. She asked whether we were interested in a deerhound? They had taken in two young bitches that were left over from a breeder who had quit his hobby. The problem was that they were not exactly pups anymore, being 9 months old and they had hardly been in contact with people at all. But she heard nothing but good things about us from her husband and if we were able to manage a Jack Russell, a deerhound, even a slightly jumpy one, was not going to be a problem.

This phone call came like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky so I could not decide there and then. Although, with the wisdom of hindsight, it could not have gone any other way than the way it went.

I sat down next to B. and we started to discuss what had until then been a theoretical situation. After some back and forth we decided that it was now or never. And we would be doing at least one deerhound a service by taking her in. But first we had to see the hounds and judge their character as best we could. A dog with history is always a bit of a gamble.

The call was made and an appointment set for the Saturday following. As my parents were on holiday Chico was also staying at our place. The grand old lady was much at home at our place. She and Pluk were now fast friends and I wondered how a third member of the pack would be welcomed. I decided to take it step by step. A visit and look at the hounds first, we would worry about the details later.

Saturday arrived and we went to the vet’s home, about 15 kilometres south of where we lived. There we entered a veritable township of deerhounds and wolfhounds. I did not count them but there were a lot of them there. When you are not familiar with deerhounds and wolfhounds they can be quite imposing animals taken solitarily. To see a pack of them running up to the gate to welcome new visitors can quite easily take your breath away. But they were all kind animals that due to their physical size were quite capable of trampling a visitor to death but only because they were enthusiastically happy to see you. So any hurt received was all meant in the best possible way.

We did not dare enter the yard on our own so we waited for the vet’s wife to come and grant us safe passage.

When finally she came she laughed at us, “I thought I heard some commotion, you can come in, they won’t bite!”

It was not biting I was afraid of, it was being crushed to a pulp that occupied my imagination but we decided to throw caution to the wind and enter.

It turned out these creatures were very well behaved and at any event, the vet’s wife managed to dampen the spirits of the most exited hounds by some well aimed verbal discharges that had the effect of an artillery barrage. It was clear these hounds knew who was boss around here.

She led us on a tour of the premises, where they also kept hounds in lodging. Large meadows were used to let them play and romp, a spectacle I could only imagine with these beasts.

In one of these fields a group of deerhounds were trotting. She opened the gate and waved us in.

“They’re in here,” she said.

A group of 5 or 6 deerhounds came running to greet the new visitors. An effect not unlike a stampede of small ponies. One stayed behind and did not enter into the frivolities.

“That’s one of the sisters I mentioned. She’s not used to human company,” the vet’s wife said. “She’s fine with the other hounds but suspicious of humans.”

The other hounds had retreated to the back of the field where deerhound fun and games commenced. This consisted mainly of running at full speed and then body slamming each other in a way that would make a NHL player jealous.

The quiet hound stayed behind. She was obviously curious but still unable to overcome her shyness. I lowered myself and sat on my haunches and talked softly to her. She was a beautiful animal. Still not fully grown but already with a regal presence. I could tell by looking into her eyes she had a soft character. Her whole being exuded royal blood. It was no wonder only Scottish royalty were allowed to keep deerhounds. Apart from their ability to hunt and thus poach in lesser hands, nothing less than a royal palace was fit for these hounds.

I stuck out my hand, palm up and continued talking to her in a soft, high voice. Slowly she approached. First she sniffed the tips of my fingers, then my hand and then my face. I remained on my knees and softly spoke to her. After some more sniffing she even allowed me to stroke her and she gave me a little touch against my cheek with her nose.

I noticed that it had gone quiet behind me and when the hound had turned to join the others I heard the vet’s wife say quietly,

“She has never done that, not even with me!”

I got up, looked at B. and knew we had found our deerhound. There was no way we were going to go home without this beautiful, kind, lovely animal. A spark, glowing for all those years since my first encounter in Scotland had ignited and I am quite certain that she knew it as well. She was destined for us.

There were two hurdles to overcome. The first was that we had made an appointment to go look at two deerhounds, we had not planned on actually buying one. The plan had been to look at them, go home, mull it over and then make a decision. In other words we were not prepared for a hound in the house quite yet. No place to sleep, no lead, no food. But this proved to be the easy hurdle.

First we had to withstand the rigourous questioning of the vet’s wife. It was all fine and good that the hound had given us her blessing, receiving the same from the vet’s wife was another matter.

After another short tour around the kennels, we were taken inside for a cup of tea. It turned out to be a third degree kind of tea party.

She made it clear to us that her hounds did not go anywhere she was not completely satisfied with. How were we planning to teach this hound to walk on a leash for instance? She had never even seen a leash, let alone walked on one. She had tried it once but it had turned into a rodeo. Only last week she had sent an Italian buyer back to Italy empty handed after he had told her he used a whip to teach his dogs to walk on the leash.

I assured her that there were no whips in our house and that I had taught a Appenzeller sennenhund to walk on the leash, after a fashion, without resorting to violence. We would manage it with kindness and slow progression, I had no doubts we would manage and tried to convince her.

Yet she remained hesitant. I had the strong suspicion that she only reluctantly sold any of her hounds and that this one had a special place in her heart.

Having met the hound I could see why. We kept assuring her on all counts, that the hound would get a great life, as good as we could provide. That we had a garden and even more importantly, large tracts of forest so she would get plenty of daily exercise. And I was sure Pluk would be a willing and energetic playmate.

I think it was lucky for us that at a certain point the vet entered, having come home from the practice. He greeted us jovially and endorsed our buying the hound. Slowly, still reluctantly, his wife caved.

“One more question, what will you call her?”

I looked at B. We had decided on a name during the week. It showed that in secret we had already bought the hound even before we had seen her. It was to be a name that continued the trend of children’s books.

“Jip,” we answered.

“Jip?” she laughed, with a certain relief in her voice. “That’s a great name! From Jip en Janneke?”

We nodded. Jip en Janneke were the two main characters from children’s books again written by Annie M.G. Schmidt with famous illustrations again by Fiep Westerdorp. Every child in the Netherlands grows up reading these books. And although Jip is the male character in the books and the deerhound was a female we thought Jip was a better name for a dog. We did not think she would mind.

“I am so glad you won’t call her something grand and inappropriate. Something macho. She has such a soft, regal character. Jip is perfect.”

I think the name clinched it. We were not buying a deerhound to show off and act all butch with. The name proved it to her.

On the way home we had a very scared deerhound in the back of a suddenly very small car. She was only 9 months old and a long way from being fully grown but already she was significantly taller than a good sized adult Alsatian. We looked at each other, the weekend was to take a very different turn than we had expected.

We barely made it back to our village in time for some shopping. Not for us but for the new member of the household. We had no leash, no cushion to sleep on, no food. The vet’s wife had lent us a lead for the way home so we decided to try out how jumpy she would be: we took he shopping. If it did not work out at all one of us would return to the car with her.

It turned out that she was very skittish indeed. Every few steps she halted and tried to get off the leash. With soft words and coaxing we got her to the pet shop where she was greeted with many ooh’s and aah’s. On the way back, she did a little better but it was clear that walking on a leash in a built up area was not a thing she took to naturally. It would take many trips, slowly introducing her to more and more people before she became confident.

At home she was immediately greeted by two dogs. Pluk, greeted her with enthusiasm, Chico, less so. Chico saw her as an intruder and sadly never warmed to her. Chico and I had always been a team and now I had let a new bitch into the pack. I do think she never forgave me for it.

Which is very sad because Jip did try. She would often go to Chico, making herself as small as she could, trying to charm her way into Chico’s grace. This was always greeted with a chagrined growl and a snap. Jip lived way above her station if she thought Chico would let her near.

Pluk on the other hand became her best mate and often Pluk acted as mediator between the surly Appenzeller and the regal deerhound.

Pack dynamics are always difficult to predict. Although slightly sad that Chico took such a tough stand, I was just glad that there were no real animosities between them that would lead to physical hurt. Although Chico was old, Jip would have been no match for her if hair had started to fly. The old veteran however decided Jip was not worth the effort. She had decided to tolerate the intruder as long as the intruder observed certain demarcation lines.

My parents were quite taken by surprise when they came to fetch Chico after their holiday. We had not said anything about the new arrival so when they came into our living room, suddenly face to face with quite a substantial deerhound, they could not believe their eyes at first.

“This is Jip,” I said.

My mother looked at her, “Is she lodging here?” she asked still unbelieving.

“No,” I said, “she’s here to stay.”

My mother looked into those big brown eyes and she and Jip immediately connected. My father looked at me, shook his head, smiling in disbelief and petted the now much less shy hound softly.

Both my parents took to Jip from the start. They adored the quiet, gracious hound. She seemed to glide when she walked and after she had become more sure of herself she became a true, blue blooded hound that dealt with attention in a quiet, serene way.

With my parents home from holiday Chico returned to her own home and we were just the four of us. There was not to be a holiday for us that year, we had spent both our money and our holiday time on Jip to give her as good a start as we could. She proved to be worth it many times over.

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Thanks a bunch Reverend RussellA Jack Russell's veni, vidi, vici