Skippy's Holiday Trials

It's New Years Eve and we've left the dog with grandma and grandpa, yet again. This time of year has definitely been a challenge over the last few years to negotiate places for Skippy to stay. The real problem is that she is not well-behaved around infants and toddlers. Both my sister and Anna's sister have children under three, which means we've had to farm her out over the holidays.

It's kind of sad for us though. We don't get to see her much and we feel horrible about shipping her off, even though most of that time is with other family. While having Christmas with my family she was with Anna's parents, which isn't too bad for Skippy. She is knows them well and enjoys having the run of their house. While we are at their house Boxing day and the two days following, Skippy is spends time at a neighbour's house down the street, as we spend the days with our toddler nephew, whom Skippy has tried to nibble on in previous times. Maybe next year.

Although Skippy is well looked after, the constant change in venue is difficult for her. When she comes home she doesn't settle down easily and remains restless most of the night. The days of the holidays seem to blend into each other and before long it's New Years Eve and we're off again, but this time Skippy is shipped off because unfortunately, it's bad etiquette to bring your Jack Russell to New Years get togethers. I'm sure she'll settle down by Monday; just in time for me to go back to work.

Happy New Years, everyone!

Sleeping With the Enemy

My last post outlined my reasoning for having Skippy sleep in the same bed with us. This arrangement has effectively eliminated the "clickity-clack" of her claws on the laminate that would keep me awake nearly every night. But it also came with a few strings attached. It would be very easy to look at this through the lens of how I have helped the dog, but it seems more and more that Skippy is fully aware that she is obliging me. She therefore sees herself in a position to have her list of demands met in exchange for her cooperation. They are as follows in her own words:

1. I sleep on my side and don't enjoy my legs all curled up, so I'm going have them stretched out at all times. If at any time during the night I feel like this demand is not being met, I will kick you in the back or stomach. I realize this is inconvenient for you but I'm sure you'll adjust.

2. Those pillow-things that you guys sleep on? I don't need my own. I'm not unreasonable. I'll just share yours; again, I'm sure you'll make the necessary adjustments.

3. As you know, I am a tiny dog and therefore do not generate a lot of heat by myself. Also, I've noticed that you turn down the heat at night. If you are committed to this course of action then be warned that I am equally committed to staying warm. Thus, I will need to be close as physically possible to both of you. If you attempt to move me to another spot then naturally I will need several minutes to dig a new nest to find the most comfortable position. Also, when you fall back asleep I will simply go back between you. I do not have to get up for work in the morning, therefore I care not if my sleep is interrupted at night; I can make it up during the day. You, however cannot, so it is in your best interest to heed this demand.

4. I know that you attempt to dissuade me from licking fabric, but seeing as how I enjoy it and it relaxes me and helps me sleep, I will do this for around a half hour before sleeping. Again, I can wait you out, so I suggest you let this go.

5. Finally, I never snored when I slept on the floor—at least not to my knowledge. But now you seem to have a problem with this. I find this soothing. It means I am getting much needed rest. Therefore I suggest you purchase some ear plugs for the benefit of everyone involved.

"Clickity-clack, Clickity-clack"

The combination of laminate flooring and Skippy's nails makes for the most irritating sound in our home. It is so loud that guests continually comment on the constant clickity-clacking that rings throughout the house when our tiny Jack Russell wanders about. This is a sound that we've learned to tune out during the day so it's nice when others feel the need to comment on how loud it is, and then ask us if we find it annoying. And occasionally, someone will ask us how we sleep at night.

When we first got Skippy, and for probably another five years after that, she slept on the floor by our bed. Initially, she was in a crate because that's the "proper" thing to do, but after your puppy-mill-rescued Jack Russell is so determined not to sleep in that crate that she somehow claws herself free, you begin to rethink what is actually proper. And so a compromise was struck; Skippy slept on the floor in her bed. I'm sure there are many dog trainers and by-the-book owners shaking their heads at me but the decision was made and I still think it was the right one. Then about three years ago I decided that I needed Skippy to sleep in the same bed with us.

I'll pause for a moment to let everyone scoff and heap judgment on me for violating the sacred boundary between pack and pack leader...

I'll reiterate that this was my decision and it was not based on any desire on Skippy's part to join us, although she certainly did not object to the new arrangement. It came about because I need my sleep and this dog felt the need to get up a couple of times a night and stretch her legs. This was almost a year after we got the new house and the new synthetic wood floors. At the first "clickity-clack, clickity-clack" I'm suddenly awake, sitting up in my bed, then trying to guess what the dog wants. She doesn't want out, she doesn't want up, she's neither hungry nor thirsty—just taking a little stroll about the perimeter. Eventually she'd go back to bed, soundly asleep in a few minutes, while I then lay awake for the next two hours. When you're only getting six to seven hours to begin with, this puts a serious damper on your mood and your ability to function the next day.

After sharing my sleeping space with a Jack Russell for three years, I can certainly understand why these boundaries should not be disrupted. I'm getting my sleep every night, uninterrupted by incessant clickity-clacking, but it has opened the door to other minor issues that I'll get to in the next post. Our arrangement is anything but textbook but I think it really comes down to what you can live with. And what I can live with, is sleep.

Finding the Perfect Chew Toy

Since getting Skippy eight years ago we have tried several different toys to try and teach her how to play. She either seems confused or completely uninterested. When a ball or stick is thrown Skippy merely looks at me, waiting to see what I'm going to do next. Clearly the ball is meant for some greater purpose, and with a little more patience, she'll find out why it was thrown.

Even toys intended for chewing fail to entice her. I've tried one of those ropes with a big knot at one end. I think the idea is that the dog is supposed to chew on the knot while you hang on to the rope end; maybe you throw it too. It didn't matter. Stuffed animals, chew toys, and the like are all politely inspected when brought home, then promptly ignored.

I would have thought chew toys to be more to her liking. They seem pretty easy to figure out. But Skippy's tastes are not so... how shall I say this? Not so "commercial". She tends to prefer more "homemade" chew toys; the occasional pencil for example. Her most recent preference was my wife's oil paints. Luckily I removed them from her mouth before she punctured any.

As she sat there on the couch, unhappy that her new chew toys had been taken from her, she looked around for something else. Her eyes caught the alluring shape of a paper envelope, and then proceeded to destroy it. It all happened so fast. I could only sit and watch astonished that my Jack Russell was completely content to chew on paper because I took away her oil paints. Say that last sentence over in your head a few times, then tell me my dog isn't a weirdo. Or better yet, imagine me bringing home some new chew toys: "Hey Skippy, I brought you home some oil paints and stationary to eat!"

What's up with my Jack Russell?

She doesn't quite look all there, does she?

Skippy's New Digs

With the economy the way it is, we try to save anywhere we can. Turning the heat down during the sleeping hours is one recommended way to save on your gas bill through the winter months. The idea being that the house is at a comfortable ambient temperature during the day and at night you double up on your blankets. My wife has taken this logic to the next level by reasoning that we could save even more money by not turning the heat back up during the day, and keep warm by wearing sweaters (jumpers). The logic worked. We're saving money, but our tiny Jack Russell is freezing.

One tends to forget that some dog breeds don't have a whole lot more insulation than us. Skippy's hair is straight, and although the individual hairs are thick, her coat isn't. She's also very wee. I'm not exactly sure how body heat works but I can't imagine that she generates a lot of it (that being said, if I'm sick she makes a great hot-water bottle substitute). But Skippy is a pretty skittish dog as a general rule, so when we began to notice that she was shaking throughout the day, as if a thunderstorm was on the horizon, we just chalked it up to her nerves. 

Eventually we caught on that she was actually cold in our 15° C home—imagine that. We needed to get her a jumper too. So Anna picked this little t-shirt up for her, and now Skippy thinks she's so pretty. She prances up and down the length of the house, parading around in her new digs, trying to make Kitty jealous. I don't think she cares, Skippy, but we think you're cute.

If anyone at all can offer an explanation as to what this means, can you please post a comment? It has completely baffled us.

Discovering Fire

I was looking through some old camping photos and came across this one and had to laugh. She looks so young here, and very cute. It's from our first camping trip with Skippy and she had obviously never seen fire before. I remember it was a strange moment that caught me off guard. Something I had totally taken for granted—one's first campfire—was now being experienced by my dog. It wasn't until Skippy became totally captivated with the campfire that it occurred to me that this was not only new for her, but that it would also be a very strange phenomenon for a dog to see the first time.

If you happened to read my September 16th post, "That Something in the Rock," then you have a little glimpse into Skippy's ability to fixate. It's not an exaggeration to say that she stood like this the entire time we had the fire going. She occasionally moved into another position that afforded her a different view of the coals or the flame, but it always looked the same and she never tired of watching it.

Fire is old hat now. She'll still comes close for the heat, but no longer stares intently, mesmerized, as if in a trance as she did here on her first trip. I also remember Anna asking me if I thought Skippy would jump into the fire, as the dog seemed to inch herself closer and inquisitively lean her nose in just a bit further. "No, she's not stupid enough to climb into a fire and willingly burn herself." And then I thought about it a little more; my reason for saying this was that it would make no sense for any animal to do this. Animals instinctively know about the dangers of fire. They don't have to be burned by a forest fire to know it will kill them. But then when has Skippy ever obeyed common sense? I leaned closer and kept my arms free just in case our Jack Russell wanted to see what the fire tasted like.

A Will of Iron and a Bladder to Match

It's been raining pretty heavily here the past couple of days. Steadily, the water has filled the massive depressions in our driveway, not letting up even for an hour. It has periodically turned to wet snow and a mixture of shmang that melts when it lands on the deck. I would describe it as generally unpleasant. I'm not complaining, though; days of steady rain, even when it comes in torrents as it did this morning, are definitely better than days of continual, heavy snowfall. I'm sure those in the UK, who are currently experiencing the most recent onslaught of winter's wonderland, would agree. But it's during days like these, when the rain refuses to let up, that Skippy's stubborn, Jack Russell determination outweighs her physiological need to urinate.

She will hold off as long as possible, before letting us know that an accident on the floor is imminent. I opened the door for her last night and she slowly walked out onto the porch before stopping, looking behind her to see if I'm watching, then turn back to the stairs before her. The rain continued to pour. I opened the door and told her go down the stairs. These words are familiar to her. She almost expects them now after years of repetition; in fact we often need to prompt her in dry weather as well or she waits at the top, hoping for the instructions she is now so used to hearing.

It's with good reason that I now wait and watch to see what she'll do. Many times I've seen her pee right outside the door on the deck because she didn't want to get wet. I've also seen her walk down the stairs, after being inside all day, then turn around, walk back up the stairs to the door and start barking to be let in. I send her down once more. She goes down the stairs. This time she waits at the bottom for about ten seconds (don't forget it's still pouring out), then comes back up the stairs when she feels enough time has passed. We play this game a few more times before she realizes that I'm not going to let her win, and she finally pees. It has been three minutes in a cold rain storm and she's soaked and shivering.

So let me see if I understand this, Skippy: by your own choice you haven't urinated in eight hours and now you're perfectly willing to come back inside and possibly hold off for what—another eight? And not only are you determined to do this, but you are so determined that you'll spend an extra two minutes in the very rain you've been avoiding, just so you won't have to be out in that rain while peeing. Sure thing, weirdo.

Skippy and Binge Eating

Skippy is a very devoted dog. When I come home from work she is very excited to see me. Now this may because she wants a belly rub, but she wants it from me. My wife is home with her all day, but it's me she is waiting to see. Sometimes I'll come in and sit down in my chair and put my feet up on the stool. There's just room enough for on that stool so she jumps up and curls herself next to me feet. Other times I will come in and lay down on the kitchen floor and talk to Anna while she's making dinner. Skippy curls herself up close to my side and waits impatiently for a belly rub. All this lasts for about five minutes until Skippy is secure in the knowledge that I am home and not leaving again. Then the real reason why she was so eager for me to come home becomes apparent: my loving and loyal Jack Russell has starved herself while I was away.

This is something that has always confused me about Skippy: she will only eat when I'm home. And now comes the binge. For the next ten minutes or so she will polish off her food dish and then yell at us for more. She polishes off another. Sometimes she vomits. Sometimes she'll wait an hour and demand more. I can't imagine that this is at all healthy. It also makes no sense, given that she is an animal with survival instincts.

I apologize for writing this in the present tense, as I myself find too much of this narrative style tedious to read, but in this case it is very appropriate. I am not talking about an isolated or even occasional incident. This is ongoing; and a perpetual conundrum.

Tail Envy

Throughout the brief history of this blog I've devoted several posts illuminating the love-hate relationship between Skippy, our hopelessly devoted Jack Russell, and her older teen-aged sibling, Kitty. The hate portion of the relationship perhaps makes for more interesting stories, but the love also has it's moments simply because it is only shared by Skippy—the most recent display of this affection coming in the form of what I like to call, tail envy.

Now I'm not really sure if this has anything to do with Skippy's tail measuring just shy of three inches, but Skippy's love for Kitty's tail is on the verge of taking root as another one of her more bizarre neuroses. Things aren't as restless around the house as they have been with these two, as Kitty seems to have developed more of a tolerant attitude toward her lesser canine housemate. They can now usually walk past each other without Skippy getting hissed at or batted in the face. On some occasions, like a young preteen follows her idol, Skippy tags along close behind Kitty without incident, hoping to get feather dusted by her tail.

Even when Skippy is resting, her eyes follow the tail, casually swaying from side to side as the cat slowly saunters past. But the visual is only a cheap substitute for the real thing; for the touch of that soft fur, moving as if a mind all its own, upon the nose or as it brushes lightly across the eyes. And when the cat is perched close by, the temptation is far too great for this wee Jack Russell to resist. Skippy will move across the couch or shift in the chair just to put herself in way of the silky pendulum that swings to its own rhythm; a feeling she will never experience from her own tail that could keep time for the Ramones. What I think I find even more amusing than Skippy's obsession is Kitty's willingness to feed it. Like Hera in all her glory, she thrives on the power to hold her subjects hostage to her unrivaled beauty and grace. And Skippy is honoured to simply sit in her presence, just hoping to touch the hem of her garment.

You want this? Come a little closer.

It's not long and lavish, but it sure is fast.

Belly Rub and Tag, You're It!

I've mentioned in a post from September, "I Might Be a Wee Bit of a Harlot," this ridiculous habit Skippy has where she rolls on her back, twitches, kicks, nudges, and even sneezes just to get us to rub her belly. Well here's just an example:

Click to see Skippy's belly rub begging on youtube

Pathetic? Perhaps even a little cute? But definitely very funny.

I also mentioned in another September post, "Duped Again," Kitty's love of hiding on Skippy and then jumping out at her from behind furniture. I actually managed to get this on video by fluke when I intended to film Skippy bolting down the living room floor after being let in from outside. I think Kitty was just playing tag. She just didn't tell Skippy that`s what they were going to play.

Click to see "Tag, You're It!" on youtube

Forward Thinking With No Strings Attached

If you haven't read my previous post, "Can You Help Me Please? I'm Stuck Again," I encourage you to do so before you read this just to give you some prior knowledge of Skippy's inability to retrace her steps. She also has a knack for getting herself tangled in her outside rope. In that previous post I talked about her getting tangled around the wheels of the Jeep and my motorcycle, but even two nights ago, she had gotten so tangled in between the porch steps and the flower pot, I couldn't figure out how she did it. I had to unhook her and pull the rope free from the other end. But this ability to get stuck truly has nothing to do with rope, and everything to do with her ability to only conceptualize forward motion.

Before you read on, check the picture below on Skippy sitting happily on the rock. What you can't see, is that rock is easily 10 feet high and directly in front of Skippy is a straight drop to the ground. Skippy managed to walk through woods to the right of it and eventually found her way to the top. It's just a gradual slope that comes up behind. You can see from her expression that she is very proud of herself as she towers over all of us.

Like all novelties that wear off, Skippy became satisfied with her time away from us and decided she wanted to return to the world of people's shins. This is the problem that now confronted Skippy: "How do I get down from here by stepping forward?" She looked behind her to see the gradual decline of the forest floor that would return her to safety. But it was "behind" her, and therefore, a mere pipe dream, a flight of fancy, an "if only." She looked forward again. Forward was the only way she knew.

She peered over the ten-foot drop, then looked at us for a last-resort solution: but there was none other than the one before her. She stepped to the edge of the tiny cliff and lowered her back to its pre-leap stance, and I realized that she was really going to jump. I yelled her name and she backed up an inch and kept her eyes trained on me as I walked around to the back of the large boulder, picked her up and brought her down.

Even with all of the insane and non-sensical things she has done, it did not occur to me at all that a jump from that height was even an option, let alone the only option. I wonder if she conceptualized her own broken bones as she processed her decision to move forward. And if she had, it clearly didn't matter. So, what is up with my Jack Russell? Anyone?

Think you're clever, eh? Let's see you get down.

No Cue How to Play

I don't know if it's because she missed out on opportunities for positive social interaction as a puppy, owing to the puppy mill upbringing, but somehow Skippy missed the lesson on how to play. By the time we got her at about three years old, the concept had already escaped her. She tries sometimes, but has never quite developed the knack for it.

She has been around other dogs but treads lightly and awkwardly upon the social plane where her role within the group or the one-on-one dynamic is established. Seemingly unable to interpret the signals and social cues sent out by other dogs that it's time to play, she either runs away, barks aggressively, or turns to us with that pleading look of complete confusion. And with the cat she tries to play, but the Kitty usually responds negatively to high-pitched barking in her face, and to having a Jack Russell barrel across the living-room floor at her.

With humans, it is no different. When a small ball or stick is thrown she just looks up at you still waiting to see what will happen, not realizing that the game is afoot and the next step requires her participation. Conversely, she will misinterpret the most common human experiences as an attempt at play.

Just yesterday, while visiting my wife's parents, Skippy assumed that my father-in-law's act of tying his shoes was actually a new game. Now to us the rules were unclear, but to Skippy it was obvious that in this game it was her job to do whatever it took to prevent the shoes from being tied, while it was grandpa's job to keep trying. Some of her tactics included nosing his hands so he couldn't grip the laces, lightly nipping his fingers, lying across the laces, and stepping away quickly, then charging at his hands just as he was about to manage a loop. Eventually we had to take her away so he could finally tie his shoes. Well played, Skippy–you won by forfeit.

I don't think it's a big deal. If nothing else, it's entertaining. The concept of play as a social function will continue to elude Skippy indefinitely. Her understanding will remain limited to her reactions to misinterpreted cues or, more commonly, no cues at all. Hey, Skippy. Let's play that game again where I throw the ball and you stand still and watch the ball, then look at me like I'm a complete idiot. That's always fun. And so here I am, staring at my confused dog, asking myself: what is up with my Jack Russell?

The Grass is Greener on Your Pillow

Growing up in my home we had the most annoying house rule: it was expected that if you got up from your seat at family functions when comfortable chairs were scarce, you would then forfeit that seat to anyone who was quick enough to take it from you. I'm not saying this was a good rule. It was as much a stupid rule as it was an annoying one. Can you tell that I lost my seat a lot? Somehow, Skippy, my possibly demented, autistic, senile, and eccentric Jack Russell, has learned this old family rule, and it's even more bothersome now than it was then.

Skippy likes to be close. If there are only three inches between you and the arm of the couch, she will wedge her way in and then brace her legs against the arm and push her her back into your thigh until there is enough room to settle in comfortably. If I get up for any reason, I've lost my spot. Even if she's on the floor, and I leave to get a drink or answer the phone, there is a Jack Russell now sitting where I once sat. And if you happened to have read my post, "Extremely Stubborn or Incredibly Lazy," then you know that this dog will not move. I've tested the strength of her resolve after she has stolen my seat by feigning to sit on her. She will actually let me apply a fair bit of weight before I have to yield and just pick her up.

Any pillow being used by someone else must obviously be better than the one Skippy is using. She tends to be even more brazen in her attempts to usurp other people's pillows. On a few occasions she has actually jumped on the couch and then backed herself in between me and the pillow I was leaning on, as if there was a little garage there to house her rear end. "Oh, my apologies. Did you want to lie on this pillow, Skippy? Here, let me get out of your way." Every night at bedtime, before my wife gets in, Skippy will always go to the head of the bed and lie on her pillow. If I happen to sit up so I can move her, she quickly jumps to my pillow, then stares at me with this look like, "What? I'm just going to sleep on this pillow. What's the big deal? We're family, right? You got up. That's the rule.

I was sitting on this couch not 5 seconds earlier. Can I at least have my Star Wars pillow back, Skippy?

Mischief Unmanaged

Probably one of the most frustrating things Jack Russell owners have to deal with, and I am just speaking to my own experience, is their dog’s ingrained aptitude for mischief. Many owners have Jacks that destroy; pillows are ripped apart, sandals, slippers and shoes are enthusiastically eaten. Thankfully, Skippy’s tastes have, up until now, only been limited to food or things that were food at one time. But it seems that no matter how much we discipline, deter, or deprive our Jack Russells of the opportunity for mischief, they inevitably give in to their compulsions and manage to cause trouble of all sorts.

When we first got Skippy we learned quickly that any food left out was vulnerable. I set two muffins on the kitchen table, one at my place and another at my wife’s.  I left for a moment to go tell her the coffee was ready and when I came back, the muffin that I had put at my place was gone; no traces of crumbs; no evidence of foul play; no Skippy; no muffin. At the best of times, I am very absent-minded and so I tend to distrust myself when things go missing. I assumed that I had just not put a muffin out for me yet. It wasn’t until after the coffee that I noticed a few crumbs on the kitchen floor leading to one of the bedrooms, where I found our guilty-looking Jack Russell.

Not long after this incident I realized that it didn’t necessarily have to be food on the table to tempt Skippy. I had made a rub comprised of a mixture of spices that prominently featured cayenne pepper. I left it out on the table to be used later. That this would soon be eaten by my newly acquired Jack Russell, had not even entered my brain. Plenty of water and two days of digestion issues later and Skippy finally recovered. But what fascinated me was that, despite the intense heat which increases exponentially with every taste, she continued to eat the whole dish. So we learn yet another lesson. That leaves us with the compost bin, which we now have to make sure is snapped shut because Skippy seems to have a real hankering for old coffee grounds and rotten food scraps.

Sometimes we let out guard down when our dogs go on good behaviour streaks. Just the other week my wife heard some rustling from the study and remembered that she might have left out an open box of cookies. When she entered the room, there was Skippy with a narrow box of Swedish cookies shoved over her muzzle, bobbing her head back trying to use gravity to help her reach the last two cookies now stuck at the bottom of the box. She turned to face my wife; her eyes full of guilt; her cookie-box face hung low, full of shame.  Quite a site to behold.

Despite our best efforts, we will undoubtedly always give our Jack Russells opportunity for mischief and we can be certain that given that opportunity, they will always take it; or at the very least, I can be certain that Skippy will.

Extremely Stubborn or Incredibly Lazy?

I think it is normal for animals to move when their personal space is invaded or disrupted. Agreed? Good. So what's the deal with my dog, then? My cat seems to have no problem understanding this concept. When she is lying on my lap and I need to get up, I only have to move slightly and she gets the hint and leaves. Skippy, on the other hand, would gladly stay on my lap until I am almost upright and gravity takes over. It's tempting to see if she would actually let herself fall; but as she starts to slide off my lap when I begin to stand, it's clear that she would rather tumble two feet to the floor than move out of the way.

This refusal to move isn't just limited to lap-time. Skippy occupies a small space on the bed at night, due to her need to get up and walk around on the laminate floor at 3 o'clock in the morning; so we compromise. On more than one occasion one of us has woken up to the sound of too little air being drawn desperately into a small pair of Jack Russell lungs. We then realize that one of us has rolled onto the dog and is slowly suffocating her. Good job, Skippy. Whatever you do, don't move or try to save yourself. We even woke up once to see her wedged between the wall and the bed, legs dangling in the air. Apparently, we had nudged her over too far. She just looked at me, stuck as she was, trying to figure out what happened. Here's some advice, Skippy: move.

Another time, she climbed in between the duvet and its cover to find a cozy place for an afternoon nap. Before she could get comfortable she did that nesting thing that Jack Russells do, but as she was rapidly moving around and pawing at the duvet, she fell off the bed while still inside the cover, and the duvet followed on top of her. She landed in a crumpled ball of fabric. We could see her shape moving a little as she looked around her. There was no visible way out and so she decided to lie back down and continue her nap until she was rescued.

In a slightly related incident, but far less deadly, Skippy climbed into the laundry hamper for a nap while my wife was making the bed. When the dirty sheets were unknowingly thrown on top of her, Skippy did not budge. Why move? We could bury her under heaps of dirty clothes and she would lay there, wheezing, indefinitely. So, what's up with my Jack Russell? Is she so innately stubborn or is she actually that lazy? I'd like to suggest a third option. How about crazy?

Maybe if I'm quiet I could live here.

A Single-Minded Sense of Smell

I met another Jack Russell owner this summer on one of our excursions to cottage country, who told us that he uses his little dog to hunt deer. I thought that was strange. I am aware that Jacks are bred to hunt small game, like rabbits, but I could not picture a deer. According to this fellow (I didn't ask his name), Jack Russells have a more discerning sense of smell than hounds and can distinguish between old and newer scents. The beagle or the hound will follow an old scent for days, while the Jack will abandon it in search of one more recent. I found this fascinating and then tried to imagine Skippy hunting a deer. I imagined her catching up to it, then rolling over and asking for a belly rub. But the conversation also reminded me of something that happened during Skippy's third trip into Algonquin Park, involving a snake.

Skippy found a toad, as she often likes to do, which she proceeded to chase into a small crevasse between some large logs that supported one of the benches. Unfortunately for the toad, there was a garter snake in the crevasse who was glad for the free meal. Before that day, Skippy had never seen a snake; and it did not cease to capture her attention.

Over the next hour, while the snake digested the toad, we tried unsuccessfully to keep Skippy from sticking her nose or paws between the logs. I don't think the snake could have done anything to her, but my wife was paranoid about it. Trying to keep a Jack Russell, especially one with OCD like ours, away from its perceived prey is just an exercise in futility and frustration. They are surprisingly strong-willed creatures.

Eventually, the snake made a break for it, probably not wanting to wait around until Skippy got lucky and dragged it out. What surprised me was that it did this in front of the dog, while provoking no attack of opportunity. Skippy seemed not to notice. Yes, I too thought this was very strange, but she returned to her efforts to remove the snake from it's sanctuary, all the while sniffing frantically around the logs. But like a true Jack Russell, she quickly figured it out and started to track the snake, which was now about ten feet away, feeling very confident.

In fact, I think this snake was slightly over-confident: one might even say, brazen. Not only did it leave the logs right in front of Skippy's eyes without detection, but when it realized that she had now picked up the scent and was heading in its direction, it slithered right toward her. Skippy's face hovered above the ground like a sniffing metal detector. The snake came within inches of her face as it slithered between her legs. Skippy's motions remained unchanged. When she reached the spot where the snake had been, she turned back in the direction she had just come and continued to follow the trail. The snake stopped for a photo as it entered the brush, then continued on out of sight, successfully eluding our poor Jack Russell, who was still sniffing, unaware that the hunt was over.

What's up with my Jack Russell? Is her sense of smell so refined that it must eliminate the adequate function of her other senses? Or is she so single-minded when hunting so as to focus completely on the trail, blocking out all other distractions—including her prey? Again, I have no answers, but I really think she would have caught it if she hadn't been so focused on smelling it.

It should also be noted that for the eleven days following this incident she did not stop sniffing around the logs or the exact same path the snake had taken: we didn't see the snake again.

Skippy is a few feet away, hot on the trail.

A Celebration of Dogness

I want to take this opportunity to contradict the description of my blog and mention all of the neat little things that Skippy does that, not only endear her to us, but let us know that we are loved. Naturally, because this is my eccentric, neurotic, and possibly senile dog, these behaviours are consistent with her other less-endearing ones. So indulge me this once and I'll tell you why my Jack Russell is so great.

Every day I commute to work, in north Toronto, a little over an hour each way. I'm an English teacher and my wife is an artist who stays at home with our two daughters: Kitty and Skippy. Kitty is our teenager, indifferent to life outside her sphere, with little tolerance for us when the needs of our lives interfere with hers. She is only the teenager in attitude, though. Skippy, two years older, gladly plays the role of the younger sister; blindly devoted to her older sibling, despite the cat's mere tolerance of her presence. She is the baby of  the family. We stay up all night with her watching "So You Think You Can Dance", with Cat Deeley, during thunderstorms; she naps every afternoon; she cries when she doesn't understand something, and we understand these different cries; she loves to snuggle up as close as she can get; she demands our attention when not enough of it has been given; and she misses us when we are away. So she is dependent upon us. But how does she show her love?

At around four o'clock she sits in the entrance to the kitchen and stares across the great expanse of the living room to the front door. She knows that it won't be long before I come through that door and she can greet me with an unbridled barrage of barks. This can get very sad when I have to coach or have a meeting and don't make my entrance until seven. Yes, she still waits, albeit rather impatiently, and then, when I finally arrive, she will not settle until I sit on the floor, rub her belly and let her lie down beside me. When grandma and grandpa bring her home after a visit, she eagerly presses her nose up to the window of their car and whines with restrained excitement at the anticipation of coming home to see us again.

It's great to have this little bundle of joy follow me around the house wherever I go. No sarcasm here: it's actually quite cute. She overreacts when we leave her, but is so happy to see us again. Her love is unconditional. She only asks for our love in return; not in payment for her own but as a fulfilment of a basic need. As a couple with no children, and who are not likely to have any in the future, this tiny Jack Russell, perhaps in some small way, also fills a need in us.

Why isn't he home yet? That's fine, I'll just wait.

The Dog's Dead!

Somehow sleeping has been added to my Jack Russell's long list of bizarre behaviours. Yes, she even sleeps abnormally. The most common deviation from the standard stomach sleep is the fetal position; incredibly cute, but not very strange, I guess. It's kind of strange that she can curl herself up in such a compact, tiny ball. Maybe. (I have a great photo of this but I can't find it)

Another slightly more strange sleeping position is when she completely lies on her back. Again, I'm sure that other dogs must do this, but it doesn't make any more normal. All she needs is a blanket to go across her body, neatly tucked under her fore paws, to complete this ridiculous caricature of a sleeping human.

She also snores dreadfully loud when sleeping like this.

The most bizarre sleeping position of all is when she sleeps like we just got her back from the taxidermist. If the first two weren't strange, then this one definitely is. She's mainly on her side, but sort of on an awkward, upward angle with all four legs in the air frozen in stasis. The first time this happened I really had to look twice and make sure that she was breathing, and then exclaimed that this is the weirdest dog I have ever seen. What makes this even more creepy is that her eyes are partially open. How can anything, dog or otherwise actually sleep like that? My Jack Russell does. It's now just commonplace in our home to walk by, glance down and comment as a matter of fact: "Hey, the dog's dead again."

Weird.

Skippy and the Bully

I would say that since the summer of this year the relationship between Skippy and Kitty has improved significantly. The direct cause of this has to do with a general improvement in the cat's temperament. It seems that Kitty no longer hisses when Skippy walks by. The two of them have peacefully passed away hours within a few feet of each other as they napped on our bed. And Skippy has been allowed to barrel down the living room corridor unhindered whenever she enters the house. Needless to say, it's been a relatively peaceful home these past five weeks. What has effected this change in our usually callous cat? I don't know; but just this week she relapsed into her old ways.

In our kitchen we have two water dishes out for the animals, along with Skippy's Brain Diet food (the cat's food is up high because Skippy was eating it). Skippy began eating, following her usual routine (totally a future blog post in itself) of grabbing a few pieces of food from her dish, bringing them into the living room, eating them and returning for more. Kitty, who was lurking nearby, placed herself beside Skippy's dish and decided to interrupt the routine. When Skippy returned for another mouthful, the cat hissed repeatedly, driving her away. Skippy tried a second time but there the cat remained, hissing over and over until Skippy skulked away, crying. She jumped up onto the couch where my wife was sitting and began to shake.

Skippy had gotten used to this improved level of tolerance and had become quite complacent with Kitty. Maybe this was intentional on the cat's part: some elaborate scheme to get Skippy to let her guard down, perhaps. It's difficult to tell with cats sometimes, how much of their behaviour is planned with an end result in mind, or how much is merely a whim. Either way, I think Kitty simply saw an opportunity to amuse herself, and us too, as it turns out; because, as much as we sympathize with Skippy's plight in this situation, we can't ignore how funny it was.

Things Jack Russells Eat While Camping

When we go to Algonquin Park for our annual canoe trip we always pack enough food for Skippy. Sometimes, however, her pallet longs for more natural flavours. On various trips, these have included blueberries, toads, voles, and moles; and the occasional tree.

The blueberries were eaten quite by accident. One of the islands we stayed on happened to be covered with them. When you're in the wild, living on mostly processed food, fresh blueberries every morning and evening with desert provide welcome colour and nutrients to the diet. Skippy seemed quite interested in the whole picking process. At first she observed by walking back and forth between us, curious to see what we were doing. Once she understood, she decided to take part in the picking and began eating blueberries right off the bush.

I don't know why this surprised me. Sure, it was funny to see her essentially participating in our activity, but it spoke to a larger social reality. It got me thinking about pack mentality. Skippy was not merely mimicking an action, but she observed and understood the purpose of what we were doing as a group, and then began contributing to the effort. This behaviour that at first seemed quirky and very Skippy-like, was actually very dog-like and quite brilliant.

Skippy continued to impress me. Soon, her ability to catch small animals began to emerge. Now the toad was never actually eaten. She of course obsessed over it, as one would expect, but when she finally grabbed the toad with her mouth with the intention of eating, or so I assume, it was immediately spit back out. Skippy then hacked and began to look at us for help as the unwanted taste lingered in her mouth. She actually learned from this experience and has not done it since, although she still obsesses over them, sniffing them out between the rocks of every fire pit we visit.

If you've never seen a vole before, they are something like tiny mice; no match for a Jack Russell. The slightly larger, mole, was also easily caught by Skippy. She even brought us the carcass, setting her trophy down at our feet, completely proud of her deed: that made two of us. I felt bad for these little critters for a few seconds before I began to wonder: when did my dog become so cool? Is this the same creature that licks my furniture and is daily outwitted by my cat?

This story wouldn't become complete without something a little weird; and even this was probably more comical than weird. On our very first trip with Skippy in 2004 she just started eating trees. We couldn't figure this one out. We really tried, but between the four of us we could offer up nothing other than this was just enjoyable for her, and therefore probably seemed pretty normal in Skippy's world. So what's up with my Jack Russell? She's closet cool, that's what. You just have to take her camping to see it.

I guess I can imagine that this would be fun.

When Self-Preservation Goes Out the Window

Most of us have probably heard of or learned about the survival instinct of animals from somewhere; maybe it was from high school biology, perhaps the Discovery Channel, or depending on your vintage, Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. I'm sure the specifics of our lessons vary greatly, but I don't think I'm assuming much to say that it's fairly common knowledge that animals, and most humans, would not knowingly act in such a a way that would put them in danger, but act in a way as to preserve their lives. Sure a cheetah will perhaps venture into lion territory for the hope of a meal, but the need to prevent certain death by starvation, outweighs the potential risk of death by lion. My point is that the same cheetah would not jump off of a cliff in hopes of catching that same prey, regardless of its hunger. Where am I going with this? I'm pretty sure my Jack Russell's survival instinct is broken.

Like most dogs, Skippy loves to hang her head out the window of a moving vehicle and feel the wind push her lips back to her ears. The first time she wanted to her head out the window, I obliged but only after I attached her leash to her collar. For some reason I was hesitant to trust her to make good decisions. She was excited but only went so far as putting her hind feet on the arm-rest of the door in an attempt to expose more of her surface area to the wind. She followed this same pattern for the next few trips, gradually leading to believe this would be the norm. I think you know where this is going.

I have seen too much of Skippy's eccentricities and irrational behaviour to ever trust her completely; even with something as seemingly obvious as not plunging to her own death. Surely she must have known the extent of the danger awaiting her just outside the window. But maybe she didn't. In her eagerness to get as much wind as possible, she somehow managed to get all four of her paws onto the door's narrow window ledge. We were going 80 km/h! This was absolutely insane. Despite my reservations, I was totally surprised but managed to yank her back into the safety of the Jeep before she plummeted to the highway.

If she were human we would not hesitate to say this was completely stupid; but we understand the extent of the danger. And unless there are several unreported dog deaths from falling out of car windows at high speed, I would assume that most dogs also recognize this danger. The question is, what happened to Skippy's innate self-preservation? The answers is, I have no idea. So what is up with my Jack Russell?

"I just want wind over my entire body!"

Those Lilly Pads Look Pretty Solid

Every summer my wife and I, along with her parents, paddle into Algonquin Park, about 4 hours north of Toronto, for our annual canoe trip. Skippy's first trip with us was in 2004 and she has been a welcome addition every year since. We soon discovered that the camping experience afforded Skippy the environment in which she could truly be a dog, as I have described in other posts. It also provides many new and unfamiliar challenges that test Skippy's assumptions of reality. Case in point: lily pads.

During her first trip into the interior, there were a few strange occurrences but nothing involving the canoe or the water. Perhaps she was too frightened by this strange experience to know the extent of the danger that lay beyond the gunnels of the boat. But the following year, was altogether different. On the first day, while paddling slowly along a narrow river, Skippy assumed a more bold, or shall I say, a more inquisitive position on the canoe. Her forepaws on the gunnel, she now could see the water fleeting by below her. Here she stayed, curious and watchful, until we stopped near a dam.

Maybe we were talking about the dam itself, or we might have been admiring the beauty of the trees and the river, but we certainly were not watching the dog. And so, when we heard a loud splash off port side of my in-laws' canoe, we all quickly turned to see Skippy frantically swimming through a mass of lily pads toward the shore, more than ten feet away. Evidently, she mistook the lily pads for dry ground. She ignored all calls to come back and hastily focused her efforts on getting safely to shore: the only thing she was certain now that was dry. In a few moments Skippy was sitting on the shore, shaking as she bore an expression of complete confusion, as if to ask, "What just happened to me?"

It's funny what we take for granted as pet owners. We assume our pets perceive things in the same way we do. In this situation it hadn't occurred to us that the large, flat plants covering the surface of the water could be perceived for anything other than what they were: flat, floating plants. But why should Skippy see it this way? If one had no other previous experience or knowledge, it is conceivable that they could make the same mistake. Now this incident was still strange, and made me shake my head in disbelief at the crazy things this dog will do, that I'm sure seem perfectly normal to her. But it did get me thinking about what else I take for granted and what my Jack Russell has absolutely no clue about.

Moments before the plunge.

I Don't Know You, but Can You Rub My Belly? Please?

There are a lot of reasons why people get dogs. Perhaps the most common is companionship. I know that for some, protection is a big reason, not loving their dogs any less than those who made the decisions for other reasons. With Skippy, it was pity. Let's be honest about it. How many of us fall into the latter category? Seeing this trembling Jack Russell looking out from the glass during a trip to the local SPCA, made on a whim, was certainly enough to draw our attention. Finding out her history as rescued breeding dog from a puppy mill, evoked our pity. I think the clincher had to be her complete willingness to roll over upon seeing the extended hand of a stranger. Then, the strangers were us. She still rolls over for us; that is unless she has escaped, whereby she rolls over for just about anyone but us.

When it comes to being naughty, I have no doubt that Skippy is just as normal as other Jack Russells. The breed seems to have an innate disposition toward mischief. And, from what I've heard from other owners, I can't complain. She doesn't destroy anything or rip anything apart. And unless we've left out food, that is within 16 inches from the floor, we generally don't have any issues. But what Skippy does love to do is escape.

Given the opportunity, Skippy will dart through the door to freedom and with great speed leave the invisible borders of our property. The first few times this happened, I engaged in the most frustrating exercise in futility I have ever known in an attempt to retrieve her. It was a game to Skippy. She would ignore my calls and wait until I was almost close enough to grab her before she shot off down the road away from me. Then she would stop on the road and wait until I again drew closer, and continue the game. After ten minutes of this, I just walked home. My wife was very unimpressed with me when I returned empty-handed. "See if you can catch her," I responded. What else could I say. She came home five minutes later.

On another occasion, soon after we got her, I attempted the same approach with some minor adjustments, but the result was unchanged: the dog doesn't come when you call her and she is definitely faster than me. This time something different happened, which both shocked and annoyed me. A couple was walking in the opposite direction of our chase, and seeing that I needed help, they called to her. Skippy ran up to them and rolled onto her back and waited for her belly rub, which she got. Why would this dog listen to a stranger and not to me? I wasn't yelling and I was careful to mask my frustration with a cheerful and playful tone. That was eight years ago and she still doesn't come when you call her and she will still always come to a stranger.

She rarely escapes now, unless a visitor accidentally leaves the door ajar for a moment. It's easily preventable: you just have to make sure the door is never left open. That seems simple, but for some reason Grandma and Grampa seem to forget this. I think that's why Skippy loves it when they look after her. Just recently, we had come home from being away. Skippy was at my wife's parents (Grandma and Grampa's). There was a message on the phone from our vet: Skippy was in the home of woman who had found her walking down her street. Apparently, Skippy just ran up to her and rolled over. That's great. What's even better is that Grandma and Grampa didn't know she was gone. When we called the lady to get our dog back she offered some really helpful advice. She said, "You know, you should probably keep a better eye on your dog. She's so friendly that she could just be taken by anyone." Yeah, thanks. I'll keep that in mind.

And what's with the no eye-contact? Completely strange if you ask me.

My Favourite Cat is Cat Deeley

Two nights ago we had a severe thunderstorm that lasted nearly five hours. The thunder was close and the lightning, continual. Skippy's anxiety during these times reaches record highs and makes the trip to the vet seem like camping. I realize that many dogs have issues when it comes to storms and in that respect, Skippy is no different; but like humans, I believe that how a dog handles itself in a time of crisis says something about their character. So who does Skippy cling to to weather the storm? Who pulls her through when thunder is closing in all around her as she shakes, shivers, and pants? Cat Deeley.Yes, that is how strange my Jack Russell is: only Cat Deeley will do. Did you expect something normal like me or my wife?

Even before we can hear advancing thunder, Skippy is keenly aware of it and begins to tremble. She can't sleep, which means neither can we. About a year ago we discovered, during a storm, mostly through trial and error, that the only thing that would calm Skippy down was, "So You Think You Can Dance?" We set the laptop up on the bed and tried various shows to try to distract her, but it was only when my wife put on "So You Think You Can Dance?" that she began to calm down. We also discovered, when we turned the volume down in an attempt to get some sleep, that the attraction to the show was not visual: she needed to hear it. We accepted this as the lesser of two evils, and Skippy was soon lulled into a sleep-like trance. Such was the pattern for the past year.

So what's the attraction to "So You Think You Can Dance?" Is it the music? That's what we thought until two nights ago. We activated our severe thunderstorm Skippy safety plan and began the usual ritual of SYTYCD, but opted to go with the Canadian version because my wife hadn't seen the newest episode. But she can only take so much of the stupidity of the French judge, so after nearly a half-hour of, "You lifted the ceiling on that house," she decided to switch to the American version.

During this time, Skippy had not settled down. She was still trembling and trying to stifle her whines; but when Cat Deeley said, "Welcome to 'So You think You Can Dance,' I'm your host, Cat Deeley," Skippy laid her head next to the laptop and drifted off to the sound of her soothing English accent. This is when we made the connection. It's ridiculous enough that she only goes down to SYTYCD, but even more so that it has to be the versions featuring Deeley. The lengthy duration of the storm allowed us to test this theory.

When the show ended, we put on the Australian version - no Cat in this one. Skippy roused herself. She looked to us with her pleading eyes, confused as to why we would do such a thing. Even though it was the same show, she became unsettled again: not as unsettled as with the Canadian version, but she clearly detected something suspicious in the Australian accent. It was friendly, but you couldn't curl up by the fire with it. We finally switched to the British version. Cat Deeley spoke her magic words, and her voice, sweet as honey, lulled Skippy into a deep slumber once again.

This story makes me howl. What a great dog. Thank you, Britain, for your proper diction and annunciation; and thank you for Cat Deeley. If my dog could thank you she would lick the furniture you sit on. The differentiation between T.V. shows and the purposeful attachment to a specific British T.V. host as a means of finding solace in a time of heightened stress, certainly demonstrates intelligence. But isn't it just weird? And bizarrely eccentric? And don't we all find eccentric people really strange? That's because they are. So what is up with my Jack Russell? I have no idea.

Cat Deeley's biggest fan.

The Jealous Jack Part II: The Mope

This is a continuation of my September 17th post, "The Jealous Jack", so if you haven't read that one yet give it a quick read and come back to this one. That's only a suggestion so that you have the full picture of the type of situation I've described and am about to illustrate. Certainly no one is stopping you from reading on.

So far, Skippy's jealousy issues with Kitty have caused her to whine, foolishly jump down from the couch to receive Kitty's wrath, and roll over on her back, shifting her body to procure our attention, thus diverting it from the cat. If both of us are present, and one is near Skippy, that person will try to calm her down and explain that the cat is allowed to have love too. If only one of us is present and the cat is laying on us, the dog whines louder and twists her body back and forth in her futile effort to get us to pet her. But she is not satisfied to simply pet. To fully please this Jack Russell we must not allow the cat do any of the following: climb on us, purr while on sitting on us, or lay on us while casually licking one of her paws, thus rubbing her one-on-one time in Skippy's face. Personally, I don't think the cat cares what Skippy thinks.

What I do think is that my Jack Russell is completely pathetic, and maybe a bit mental. When her transparent attempts to distract, deter, and divide us from the cat have all failed; when it is clear that the cat has won and all hope of Kitty's rejection is lost, Skippy admits defeat. But she doesn't take this defeat passively. She jumps off the couch hesitantly, takes a few more steps before she stops in the middle of the floor. Isolated and forlorn, she looks back with one last attempt to exude her pathos, hoping that I will take pity on her and eject the cat from my presence. Dejected and determined to be alone, she trots to the door and barks to be let out. Sorry, Skippy: I'd let you out but I have a cat on me.

Can You Please Help Me? I'm Stuck Again

After you have a dog for a short while you come to recognize certain barks. For example: there is the "I want in now" bark, the "This is my driveway, so keep on walking" bark, and the "Someone is at the door" bark. These are just a few basics that I've come to recognize with Skippy. But it wasn't long after we got her that I noticed a new one that would quickly become a major part of her repertoire: the "I'm stuck, can you please help me" bark.

When my wife and I first got married we lived with her parents and they had a large, mature maple tree in the middle of their backyard, which we tied the dog to. The rope extended from the tree to the side door and gave her enough freedom to explore most of the yard unhindered. One day, there was a bark coming from the yard that we had not heard before. It was a staccato bark, higher pitched than normal, with longer pauses in between. She also sounded farther away then the door. As the large kitchen window overlooks the yard, we first went there to see what the matter was, as the bark had a hint of desperation to it. There was our nearly new Jack Russell completely wrapped around that maple tree.

Sure, this was a funny sight, but we thought she would just retrace her steps and walk clockwise around the tree to free herself. We quickly realized that she was not barking so that we could spectate, but that she clearly saw herself in a situation that she did not know how to escape from. Parenthood provides us with many teaching moments and since we don't have kids I thought this would be a good opportunity to teach this Jack Russell how to make a clockwise turn. So I calmly began to walk around the tree in the opposite direction, calling her name, assuming she would follow me and see the path to her freedom. I figured this would take a few times to sink in and that patience was required; after all, this was a new environment for this troubled dog and she wasn't going to learn this overnight. I was so prepared to be patient. I was smiling. This was an amusing situation, but it soon became frustrating as Skippy wouldn't follow me. She did not respond to her name. She still doesn't. I didn't even get to step one of my brilliant plan. I found out quickly that when your voice becomes frustrated, then angry, she is even more less likely to follow. Finally, I grabbed the rope and forced her to follow me, as she fought and pulled in the opposite direction. Why are you doing this! It makes no sense! With everything in her, she fought against the clockwise retracing of her steps.

It would be a conservative estimate to say that she gets stuck in this exact same fashion at least once a day, if not more. You have to pick your battles, and this was one I was not prepared to fight. As it turned out, this was a wise decision because it would have been a perpetual struggle: not of wills, but of my patience and her inability to backtrack.

We bought our own house over four years ago. It had no large tree of any kind for her to wrap herself around. But Skippy continued to baffle me as I heard her familiar plea for help one the first mornings she was there. She discovered that the tires of our Jeep were great for walking around and walking through. I could not believe this. It happened with the motorcycle too, and still not a day goes by that we do not have to rescue her from one of these self-imposed traps. It's always the same: no matter what direction she goes around the wheels.

I just shake my head in amazement at this. You are so weird, Skippy. We have an entire lawn with no obstacles at your disposal and you still insist on wrapping yourself around the wheels of our vehicles.  Jack Russells certainly spawn some unique stories, but I cannot believe that this directional incompetence is indicative of the breed. And so I still ask, "What is up with my dog?"

Look closely at the rope.

It looks so simple, yet she cannot figure out how to free herself.

They Call Me Kitty

When people ask me what my Jack Russell's name is, I can give two responses: the name we gave her and the name she has given herself. "Your dog gave herself a new name? It must be really smart." I guess when you look at it that way it seems like a logical jump; that is until you meet the dog.

No, I'm afraid that the explanation is much simpler than that. Skippy's extreme insecurity as a legitimate pet in our household only intensified with the arrival of Kitty four years ago. Any attention given to the cat meant attention withheld from Skippy and therefore, signified Skippy's demotion to second pet. Skippy also began see how cool the cat was. She was amazed at how quiet she walked, how she didn't care about anything, how she didn't get scared or nervous all the time. The cat was like, "whatever" and Skippy soon came to envy the cat and became jealous of her innate coolness.

But what could she do? The solution provides us with even greater insight into how incredibly strange this dog is. Since Skippy quickly realized that she couldn't compete with Kitty with respect to her grace, poise, and overall lack of respect for authority, she decided that she would become Kitty. From that point on, she resolved not respond to her name the other 50% of the time and only respond to "Kitty". As you can imagine, this became very frustrating for us as whenever we called the cat, the dog would come running. Maybe it is because "Kitty" sounds similar to "Skippy" and the dog is confusing the sounds. I wish it were only a case of bad auditory reception. But the two sounds must be distinguishable enough to her ears because she comes to one and no longer answers to the other. I'm afraid this is a choice that is somehow meant to up Skippy's cool status in the eyes of her human cohabitants.

The decision to change her name was only the beginning of Skippy's Kitty worship. We have found Skippy sitting uncomfortably on the arm of the couch or on the back of the couch looking out the window: two of Kitty's favourite spots. Her face betrays both her eagerness for approval and her awkward discomfort, as her soft nest of blankets lies unused nearby. The cat also has her favourite stool, which she loves to sleep on. If she leaves it, Skippy immediately replaces her and takes up residence on the stool. She looks at us with a ridiculous smile. Yes, Skippy, you are just as cool as the cat.

In addition to this, I once watched the cat grab a rolled up sock out of the laundry basket and toss it in the air, then jump and catch it again. We were all amazed and praised the cat for her agility and prowess, and even took turns throwing the sock up for the cat to catch. She played along for a few more throws before she got bored and walked away. Skippy then jumped off the couch, walked up to the abandoned sock, nosed it a bit, then turned to face us, hoping to receive her portion of the praise we bestowed on the cat. We patted her on the head and told her she was pretty.

I'm not really sure how to conclude this. Skippy's strange behaviour provides us with many laughs because she's quite a pathetic little creature. She wants our approval so much that she will go to any length to obtain it; even to the point of impersonating the cat who despises her. I find it hard to believe that this is a trait common to Jack Russells, and although she had troubled beginnings, she has received constant love and inclusion into our family for the past eight and a half years. So really, what is up with my Jack Russell?

You are very pretty, Skippy; and a tad pathetic.