The Joys of Living with a Terrier

Still Life With Terrier

Your eyebrow is raised in disbelief - almost audibly. "Still" and "Terrier" in the same breath? Oxymoron of Biblical proportions, you say.

Well, right now she's still, my little APBT (American Pit Bull Terrier for the uninitiated). She's asleep -- well, nearly so, gray-golden eyes drooping, indicating a pleasant satiety with the day's activities (and no, I really don't want to know what all she's been into) her only movement a miniscule, intermittent squirm trying to find a way, even in her somnolent state, to snuggle a mite closer.

This is the most important part of her day, or at least she does a good job of convincing me it is, She looks like a little blue-brindled fawn, long legs curled, ears folded back, relaxed, chin nestled over the crook of her back leg, tiny droplet of drool glistening contentedly on her perpetually pouty bottom lip, a soft whiffle escaping from her throat every now and again.

Hard to believe that a short while ago she was racing around the house looking for her sock. And before that whirling like a dervish snapping and growling at her tail. It's a provoking tail; it stays just out of her reach, flaunting and taunting her. She usually catches it at some point, but in her enthusiasm, she barks at it and it escapes her once again, setting the process back in motion until she tires of the chase and sits down and pins the skinny varmint in one place long enough to gnaw on it.

Even more far-fetched is recalling her antics before that, watching her tirelessly leap tall obstacles with a single bound chasing a ball and bringing it back to me, teasingly placing it in my open hand, only to snatch it away, drop it on the ground in front of me and step away, then dart back, grabbing it and dancing sideways, not quite out of my reach, wriggling and writhing when I wrap her squirmy little body up in my arms and squeeze her gently until she drops the ball after trying to bark around it, showing me the Crazy Eyes as she maniacally licks my face before I turn her loose, snatching up the momentarily forgotten ball. I pick it up, she bows, chest to ground, one ear almost standing up, butt in the air, tail curled stiff, ready to rock and roll. I make a feint, pretending to throw the ball to my right and she lunges that way, back turned to me, searching in the air for the ball and listening for it to hit the ground. After a few seconds she knows it should have hit, and turns back to scold me for playing her false. I make another feint; she flinches but doesn't give chase to a phantom again, and I reward her
cleverness with a high, long throw that lets her run out and then launch her body into the air, mouth gaping.

PLUNK! She's caught it, then landed, legs already running before she hit the ground, and it's her turn to tease me again, running toward me, swerving at the last moment to avoid being caught, circling back, daring to dart between my legs . . . . getting nabbed and hugged, and the process begins again.

There's a thunderstorm that's supposed to be moving this way, and before I can hear it, she will, and she'll explode out of sleep, rose-eared and wide-eyed with that warning bark she always has cocked and ready. That droplet of drool will turn into spit with her first bark as she launches herself from my side, across the bed with one leap and onto the far windowsill with another, hurling challenges at the heavens from deep in her chest, racing from window to window with every crack of thunder, getting ready to rumble until one of the big dogs tells her to lay down and shut up.

But in this moment in time, she's my own little masterpiece -- Still Life with Terrier.

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