Breed Profile: Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier

First of a new regular feature!  Dog Breed Profiles.

The Wheaten is a medium sized squarely built dog of the Terrier type.  That is, he has that jaunty spring to his step and that fabulous strait up tail and the overall body style also present in the Kerry Blue Terrier, the Irish Terrier and the Airdale, among others.  The Wheaten weighs in the range of  30-45 pounds and is 17-20 inches in height (at the shoulder).  Life expectancy is 12-15 years.

 

The Wheaten differs from other terriers in coat type.  Touch the coat of a Cairn or Welsh Terrier.  You will find it wiry not soft.  These coats must be stripped (a fancy way to say tediously pulling individual hairs out) to maintain the wiriness.  The Wheaten has a single coat of soft silky hair.  This coat is maintained by combing it out (brushing makes it fuzzy, like my hair on a humid day).  Many choose to trim the Wheaten shorter on the body and leave beard and bangs on the head.  This haircut makes the Wheatie look rather like a blond Schnauzer.  But it does relieve the owner of all that stressful combing.

The best way to understand a breed is to look at what job it was originally developed to do.  Terriers are vermin catchers. Members of the Terrier group range in size and shape based on which vermin they pursue.  Consider the Dachshund. (Though not a terrier, it has terrier qualities and is a great visual). Long narrow bodied and short legged - the better to fit down a critter hole.  Taller terriers like the Wheaten can chase down a rat and other unwanted pests like snakes or fox.  In Ireland, where the Wheaten was first developed, he was not just a pest control expert but an all around farm dog who worked as a guard, herder, hunter and companion.  Today the Wheaten still has the urge to chase vermin. So if you have a pet rabbit or guinea pig in the house, take care to protect them from the very real chance of their falling victim to the Wheaten's innate prey drive.

The typical Wheaten is self confident and cheerful.  They like children but will not tolerate rough handling.  Wheatens are reasonably intelligent and not particularly easy or hard to train.   While usually amiable with other dogs, the Wheaten prefers to be with people. One of the biggest complaints about Wheaties is their exuberant tendency to jump upon and kiss most everybody they meet.

The Wheaten Manifesto 
Sure, I'm slightly goofy and quirky, it's part of my charm. 
Yes, I know that sleep is important but we can do that later.  First let's do something fun.
Squirrels are meant to be treed.
Let's sit on the couch together so close that we are practically melded.


Next Breed Profile:  Greater Swiss Mountain Dog!


akc.org
Encyclopedia of Dog Breeds   by D. Caroline Coile, PhD

Trespassers will be Treed

It is clear to me now why dogs so enjoy chasing critters up trees.  I treed a cat!  In all honesty it was inadvertent.  Admittedly, I am but a novice treer.  Nonetheless, due to my actions, an animal fled up a tree and stayed there (at least for a time).  Thus, it qualifies as a treeing.

The usual morning routine around here is when Lois and I return from our walk the other dogs join us in the backyard.  I then put a cup of seed in the bird feeder which hangs from the Maple tree.  On this day however, there were trespassers in the yard. Three cats were skulking around under the Maple tree.  One of the cats was that enormous clay colored cat that is a frequent visitor.  His companions were a dark brown medium sized cat and a juvenile pale calico.  When I saw them I lunged in their direction and uttered something along the lines of, "yaah!"

They scattered.  The big cat and the brown cat slipped into the next yard, presumably under the fence where it meets a raised concrete area.  The youngster went in the other direction and finding no way out, went up a tree.

My neighbor is not an enthusiastic weed puller.  This results in weeds along the fence line.  Some of these weeds grow into trees.  It was one such tree up which the cat youth found himself.  He clung tightly to a branch and his eyes revealed what you might euphemistically call concern.

Meanwhile, the local birds who are familiar with our morning routine, had witnessed this occurrence.   Sparrows perched in a group on the Weiglela.  Pigeons waited in a row on the phone line.  Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal hung out in the Forsythia.  A Blue jay squawked from the Red Maple in the neighbor's yard.  After I put seed in the feeder, the birds descended.

The adolescent cat loosened his grip on the tree branch and looked around, weighing his options. He could climb down the same way he climbed up.   Or he could move out onto a branch and leap onto another branch then into the shrubs.  But he would need squirrel dexterity to pull that off.  His remaining option was to jump onto the neighbor's roof. 

Some birds pecked at the seed in the feeder and some on the ground while the cat remained in the tree.  A Blue jay perched in a branch at eye level to the cat and jauntily cawed, "in a bit of a bind, aren't you, Bucko?"  A half a dozen Sparrows clustered in the Pussy Willow tree and gazed smugly at the captive kitty.  "Nah, nah.  Bet you wish you had wings, eh Pal?"  Mr. Cardinal perched at a discrete distance while his mate used the feeder.  He cheeped, "hey, Young Fella, you ever hear of  karma?"

Nature can be cruel.  But it isn't every day that it's playground taunting cruel.

Before long, the big cat and the brown cat returned.  They stood on the neighbor's front lawn.  Because the Forsythia bushes blocked the view, we can only assume that they were talking junior down.  Indeed, the kid jumped from the tree onto the roof.  For some time, he moved from side to side of the roof.  Cautiously, he would lean over an edge and peer down.  One imagines his mentors on the ground advising, encouraging their protege'.  Pretty soon the lad leaped onto the awning over the porch than plunged some ten or twelve feet onto the lawn. 

He must have made it.  A peek around the Forthesia hedge revealed no cats in the grass.

Not Scared, are you?

Most of us know a dog who is afraid of thunderstorms.  I once had a dog named Esther.  During storms she would hide under my bed shivering and panting.  There was no consoling her.  She would not come out from under the bed even to enjoy the distraction of say, a rawhide chew or a let's go for a ride type positive experience.  The dog was just plain scared out of her wits.

If the lightening and thunder show occurred during the night, I would lie on my bed feeling the vibration of Esther's trembling beneath me. This is the only time it ever crossed my mind that the bed frame might give way and collapse under my weight.  It was as though Esther's irrational fear was contagious. I was unable to sleep, not only due to the crashing storm outside and the sound of Esther panting and the unrelenting movement of the bed as Esther quaked but because my mind would not let go of the stupid idea that suddenly just as Esther lay vulnerable beneath the bed- it would crush her. This experience convinces me of the power of association.  Let's call it the Esther Effect.


We're told by experts that a dog who is afraid of thunderstorms can be reconditioned from a fearful reaction to a positve (or at least neutral) reaction. Buy yourself a recording of a thunderstorm and play it softly while feeding the dog treats or playing.  Little by little as the dog grows more nonchalant, turn up the volume of the phony storm.  The theory is that in time, the dog will not be afraid of thunderstorms because he's been having fun during the formerly scarey business of driving rains and flashes of light and boom boom thanks to a positive simulated storm experience. 

Sounds great, doesn't it?  You can redo an unpleasant reaction into new improved blase' courage!  Trouble is, you make some progress in your desensitizing then a real live storm comes along and you're back to square one.  Oh, well, slow and steady wins the race.  Don't give up!  Try try again!  It'll be OK!  You can do it!

In my household, roughly half the residents are afraid of storms and half are indifferent to them.  The scaredy cats run to The Handsome One for comfort.  It's done quite casually, we just sort of loiter in the general vicinity of THO and the other brave ones here at Bad Dog Ranch.  We hang around hoping that something will rub off.  You know, the Esther Effect.

Fear takes its toll.

Esther (on the left) as she appeared on sunny days.  Her companion's name was Heather.  It is not known whether or not Heather was afraid of thunderstorms. 

Long Lasting Pets (like Malcom)

Yes, pets are a responsibility.  But some are more of an investment than others.  Investment of years, that is.  Consider the difference between a Betta Fish and an African Grey Parrot.  Well cared for, the Betta may live a year and a half, the Grey seventy years.

Many people make provisions in their wills for the care of their pets.  Laws vary from state to state in the US but usually a trust fund can be set up to provide for the pet's needs.  In addition to the monetary provision, a guardian is named to manage the pet's care.

The topic of pets to grow old with gives me an excuse to talk about Malcom.  In the summer of 1975, I was thirteen.  Macomb Pet Shop was about a mile away and a frequent destination for my family.  My brother was an avid tropical fish hobbiest and I often came along to look at the Mynah Bird that apparently lived there in the store.  And there were the turtles.  I had enjoyed terrapins as pets.  Then I found out about tortoises. Very cool critters and less dirty water to clean!   A shallow pan of water is all they require for drinking and occasional soaking.  Tortoises need to be keep warm, so a light and/or undertank heating unit is necessary.  

Red Footed Tortoise

Malcom was about the size of half  a shoebox when I bought him. These days, when you buy a Red Footed Tortoise from a pet shop he'll be a baby, slightly smaller than a baseball and captive bred.  Malcom was probably caught in the wild and shipped to the pet shop.  This likelihood has always led me to believe that Malcom harbors not a small amount of animosity towards me.  (This may be more my hang up then his, however.) Still, there is no denying that Malcom is a prisoner.  But then, arguably, most pets are prisoners.  As Warden, you try to make it a nice prison. 

The day Malcom came home with us was hot and sunny.  So, by Red Footed Tortoise standards, quite comfortable.  Under my giddy and watchful eye, Malcom strolled around on the grass in the backyard.  He was magnificent- elephantine hind legs, dark brown shell decorated with three tidy rows of yellow squares.  His head was sprinkled with yellow and orange polka dots.  Dark orange circles accented his feet.  Malcom's front feet looked like standard turtle feet (though thicker) shaped at an angle with nails suitable for digging.  Of course, tortoises tend to be thicker all around than terrapins.  It is no doubt by design.  Terrapins need to be more stream-lined for swimming.  Tortoises need to be heavy and sturdy to handle the challenges and perils found on the ground. On this lovely summer day, Malcom ate his first meal in Lynn's Prison yard:  a perfectly ripe strawberry.

My relationship with Malcom has spanned some three decades.  Stay tuned, more excuses to talk about Malcom are forthcoming.

  

Image: from the book, Turtles by John M. Mehrtens

Recommended reading:  Turtles by Hartmut Wilke and Exotic Pets by Arthur Rosenfeld

She's not even Embarrassed

Is there such a thing as Doggy Pride?  Do dogs feel a strong sense of duty and fidelity to dogdom the way Americans do to their country?  Or is Doggy Pride more like loyalty to a team?  Could it be that dogs just sort of hang out, possessing only a vague notion of self respect like a forty year old who has never done anything his entire life other than be a student? Or is the dog thing all unthinking instinct?

Like most seemingly inscrutable questions, the answer is probably a combination of things.  Inscrutable things, probably.

A close friend of mine is a sheepdog.  (Please see Hairballs- not just a cat thing, May 24, 2010).  She has had a problem with hairballs for some time now.  Today we visited the veterinarian and left with a tube of "Cat Lax".  The label reads: a palatable formula for the elimination and prevention of hairballs in cats".  And as of today- Cats and Lois.

I gave her a dose just now.  She's not even embarrassed.

Why the heck am I so embarrassed?  It's not like she's using a litterbox.

That's a Lot to Ask

My dog, Lester was due for his Rabies booster.  During the check up the veterinarian noted that Lester had a slight fever.  Obviously, since his body was busy dealing with something important enough to cause a fever, we delayed the vaccination. A few weeks later, Lester was fine and bravely received the injection.

Lester's dog license renewal was also due.  Visiting City Hall is one of those things that invites procrastination  so it was a couple weeks later when I appeared at the City Clerk's window with proof of Rabies Vaccination in hand and some cash in my purse.  A bland woman slipped me an official City of Royal Oak form and instructed me to fill it out.  She did not make eye contact with me.  On top of the fee for the license was a ten dollar fine for lateness.  I did not bother to explain to Ms. Bland why my beloved dog's rabies vaccination and license application failed to meet her timeline.

For some time, I've been flirting with the idea of helping out a local rescue group by fostering dogs until permanent homes can be found for them.  This would mean additional dogs would be living in my home for periods anywhere from two days to two years. I wondered if the city rules would permit me to do this good deed.  Ms. Bland didn't know or seem to care what the dog limit per household was.  She turned to a large woman wearing a smirk.  While not making eye contact with me, Ms. Smirk said three animals was all you are allowed.  Animals.  She stressed the word animals.  Not just dogs but animals.  I asked what can you do if you wish to have more than three animals.  Ms. Smirk said they don't answer questions like that.  This is the City Clerk.  I'd have to go upstairs to Zoning.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor and found court rooms.  I was pleased to find a bathroom on the second floor too.  It is always good to know where the bathrooms are. The theme on this floor was courtly not zoney. Determined to find and query Zoning, I headed up to the third floor. 

There were signs on the walls on the third floor but none for Zoning.  Walking through several twisting interconnected narrow hallways did a thorough job of getting me turned around.  It is troubling not to know which way North is, even when you don't really need to know it.  Eventually, I found a man in the Engineering Section.  Not only did he make eye contact with me, he smiled too!  Zoning isn't a real destination,  he told me.  What I wanted was Planning- go right then left then through a curving hallway and Planning is on the right.  It was. 

At the Planning window, an elderly woman wearing thick glasses greeted me with indifference. She told me she couldn't answer my question and called to someone behind a cubicle wall.  A nerdy looking fellow of indeterminate age appeared. When I asked my question he reached for a reference book and quickly found the page he was looking for.  Yes, three animals is the limit.  If you want to have more you can request a hearing.  He paused and looked at me with sheepish sympathy.  He could give me an application.  There is a fee.  The process is not inexpensive, Mr. Nerd added, a remarkable understatement that would reveal itself shortly.  

I'd been intending to get this information for months.  There I was in City Hall.  So, of course, I asked- how much does it cost?  In a soft voice, Mr. Nerd answered.  Seven hundred dollars.  Seven hundred dollars to ask for a hearing.  Seven hundred dollars to ask some bureaucrats whose salary I pay, if is OK with them for me to have more than three dogs in my house.  Seven hundred dollars to ask for permission to do something in my own home.

I thanked the nice nerd and walked out to my car.  Incredibly, I did not cry. I rather thought I would.  But by the time I reached the privacy of my car the tears had gone.

It turns out- I am too angry to cry.

Worse than Skunk

In the pantheon of bad odors, skunk spray ranks pretty high.  But there is a far worse stink than skunk oil.  Skunk poop or suspected skunk poop- at any rate, confirmed wild critter poop- is just about the worst thing I have ever inhaled. 

Naturally, because this smell is so awful, some dogs feel irresistibly inclined to roll in it.  This morning, one of my dogs did just that.  For reasons that we humans will never fathom, this dog opted to become one with the stench. So she rubbed her head on it, leaving a path of hellish rankness from her cheek down her neck all the way to her shoulder.

One of my other dogs pointedly sniffed at her neck, tattle tale syle.  This alerted me.  There was a dark smudge visible on her hair at the side of her neck.  I leaned in to sniff the smudge and almost threw up. The dog who committed this heinous roll will henceforth be referred to as Stinky.  We'll call her Stinky too.  That is, when we start speaking to her again.

The only, and I mean ONLY bright spot in this wretched episode is the fact that excrement washes out more readily than does the oily stuff that skunks spray.  Yes, for the horrific dung- lather rinse repeat x 3 did the trick.

By the way, for skunk spray clean up you'll need:  White vinegar or 3 % hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and dish detergent.  (The ratios are roughtly: 1 liter, 1/4 cup, 1 teaspoon.) Repeat lots of times.  Or call a professional.  Some companies have portable grooming stations inside a van which they'll park in your driveway while they deskunk your dog for you.

But if you're like me, you wash your own.  Therefore, I have a stash of assorted doggy shampoos always at the ready. To eradicate Stinky's impromptu putrid adventure, I went with a deodorant version offering a pleasing Cucumber Melon bouquet.

 I was framed!

Mud Sling

                The ground is thawing.  The earth becomes mushy.  It rains.

Mush becomes muddy slush- mulush? slud?

This calls for a change of routine for my dogs.  Those with muddy paws must cue up to a bucket before entry into the house is permitted. You know those little slivers of bar soap that are too small for shower duty?  I've got a mesh bag full of 'em!  Swish that bag in a bucket of warm water and... instant foot bath!

After the muddy paw is immersed in water I use either my fingers or a washcloth to rub out all the offending mud.  Follow up with a big fluffy towel and we have paws fit for indoor use.

What mud busting methods have you tried, and which do you recommend?