‘Who on earth would own up to having a Dandy Dinmont
Terrier?’
It isn’t the most prepossessing of names for a breed of dog,
is it? It doesn’t have the power of a Rottweiler, the nobility of a German
Shepherd, the elegance of an Afghan, the cuteness of a Corgi, or the workmanlike
qualities associated with a Whippet, a Collie or a Jack Russell. It’s foppish and
pretentious. It’s redolent of limp-wristed men dripping handkerchiefs. You can
smell the wig powder, and see the free arm supported on the hip like the handle
of a teapot.
Which is a shame really, because I’m sure the dear Dandies
are perfectly nice, characterful little dogs. And the epithet ‘terrier’
suggests they must have done an honest day’s work at some point in an earlier
incarnation. It’s just a pity about the name.
The fact is, though, I’ve no idea where the thought came
from. It happened long before I encountered the Sprocker mentioned in an
earlier post, and even before I saw the thin little squint-eyed dog being held
on a lead by a thin little squint-eyed man.
My own preference in dogs would be the Border Collie and the
Beagle. I wonder what that says about how I appear to other people.
And I went beagling once, you know, when I was a cadet at Dartmouth. I expressed my objections to
my Commanding Officer most strongly, but was told I had no choice. All I
remember about it was that the hare escaped simply by jumping over the dogs and
running away in the opposite direction. Got to love those cute but clueless
beagles, haven’t you? And so I do.
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