By Walter Davis
Back in the mid 1990′s, my wife came home from the Astroworld Series of Dog Shows with this marvelous tale about a dog sport called Flyball where teams of dogs ran and jumped and grabbed tennis balls — all things that our Jack Russell terrier did on a daily basis. We thought hey, this is the perfect sport for us. So we found a local trainer and took the little fella to classes and he was soon a superstar, at least in our eyes. My wife was the handler and I was merely the cheerleader on the sidelines. But I had the fever, and in early 1998 I decided to expand the furrier portion of our family by adding another pup that I could race. I wanted something with size and speed in the middle between the Speed Racer Border Collies and the determined Jack Russells. I did some research at the library and decided that a Welsh Terrier was the perfect fit for me. The problem then became how and where to get one.
Internet research told me that Welsh Terrier owners didn’t advertise their litters very much and kept prices relatively high, wanting to avoid the mass production problems that plagued the Jack Russells, who were suddenly in demand after movies like My Dog Skip, but then quickly forgotten or abandoned when new owners realized their high energy requirements. But sure enough, one Sunday in the pet section of the local Houston newspaper, there it was… a nearby litter for sale. I called and made an appointment to immediately go see the little rascals for myself, and we set out on what was to be an eleven-year adventure.
I rang the doorbell and a very sweet and very lovely lady named Annabella answered. As she sat and petted her boy Chester, she told us all about Welshies, their likes and dislikes, their personality quirks and the things that made them special to her. At some point during the conversation I believe it was Chester who calmly walked over and jumped into their pool for a quick swim. I thought, “WOW, this is the dog for me!!” I can only assume that Annabella eventually deemed us to be good prospective parents because then she introduced us to the two pups that were up for adoption. The female was already spoken for, but the little male pup was available to the right family. This little guy was CUTE!! He looked just like a little baby buffalo to me, all black with a bit of tan mixed in. He’d run and stumble, then pick himself up and roll over his sister with glee.
I picked him up.
He licked my face.
He settled into my arms and went to sleep.
I was a goner.
It was love.
I’ll never forget a Flyball demo we helped put on at Delta Downs one weekend where Duncan ran down, grabbed the ball, ran back JUST out of my reach, jumped over the hay bales separating us from the crowd, and proceeded to run laps around the field while his fans cheered him on. The announcer simply laughed and said, “that’s why our mantra is train, train, train”.
Duncan never did race professionally, but he cheered from the sidelines for years until our other pups grew too old to race any longer and we retired from the sport. He is turning 11 years old very soon, and these days he can be found in our huge backyard being chased by our Border Collies and chasing our Jack Russell in return. It’s hilarious to watch them all play for so long, then have him suddenly lay down huffing and puffing and look over at me with joy in his eyes.
Someone asked me recently what I loved most about the little guy. My comment was this: Even on days when I’m frustrated as hell with him over something he’s chewed on that he shouldn’t or when he’s gotten too aggressive with the other dogs over toys or food, I’ll yell at him and tell him that he’s in trouble. And the little cuss will put his ears down, come crawl into my lap, lick my face, and curl up in my arms and close his eyes.. just like on the very first day I ever laid eyes on him.
What can I say?
I’m a slave.