That's my dog, Claymore; we call him Clay for short. I don't know why Julie has dressed him in a pink Tiara; I suppose its from her fascination with playing 'dress up' with Barbies as a young girl. It won't do him any harm, in fact, I intend to wear my black leather kilt with a pink shirt and flashes to the opening of the Stampede, if I find time to make it this year, so we will be a well co-ordinated pair. I have never owned a dog in my life, and, up till a year ago, had never thought that I would; nor did I have any real inclination to.
I have always been a little leery of dogs, and I come by that aversion naturally. On the farm, just outside of Creemore, when my parents were first beginning their farming adventure, my Father had marvelous mongrel named 'Nipper'; marvelous at least, in the eyes of my Father, for the way he could herd cattle, and the way he could keep the groundhog population in check. He must have had a good percentage of sheepdog in him, for my Father used to tell of the astonishment of our Mailman, Harvey Fergusson, one morning as they were chatting at the end of our lane. Harvey had spotted one of our cattle on the road about a quarter of a mile from the farm gate; a good neighbour, and a great Mailman, he'd stopped to inform Father of the fact, and to offer his assistance in rounding the stray up. Father told him not to worry, he'd just send the dog, "Go get him Nipper!", he said, and, as the Nipper streaked stealthily through the grass and weeds in the ditch to avoid detection by the stray, Father and Harvey continued chatting, all the while observing Nipper stalking his quarry. In no time Nipper was behind the escapee, relentlessly guiding him towards the farmyard, nipping at it's heels to encourage enthusiasm. Right up to to the lane way Nipper drove it, past the two onlookers, up to the barnyard where he held it, cornered, until Father wandered up to open the gate, then Nipper ushered the renegade right into the stockyard. Not bad for an untrained mongrel; instinct can be a powerful thing.
The problem with Nipper was jealousy. He'd been raised from puppy hood by my parents, and considered himself, at the very least, #3 in the pack hierarchy; possibly #2 after my Father. Everything was as it should be in Nipper's eyes, that is, as it should be until us four Mackay kids began arriving on the scene. Nipper felt his position in the pack threatened, and did not take well to that threat. I could never walk within ten feet of him without a low warning snarl; any closer would bring a snap! He never bit me, but he never let myself, nor my brother and two sisters forget exactly what he thought of us. He was a constant presence until I was eight or nine, and, while we had other good dogs after him, I never quite forgot; first impressions are the ones that last.
It wasn't till last year, at a Celtic Festival in Southern Ontario, that I even began to consider the possibility of adding a dog to Julies' and my retinue of cats. They had a Scottish dog breed show there and, of course, my Honey just couldn't be steered past it. I was more interested in the British Antique Car & Motorcycle display, but went along anyway out of a sense of spousal duty. It's surprising how many breeds were developed in Scotland, and Julie, who I suspect has never met an animal she dislikes without a good reason, spent quality time with each of them. But it was the Dandie Dinmont Terrier that swept her away. The one group of owners even had a 'cuddling couch' set up, and, if you wished, you could take a Dandie into the booth and really make an acquaintance. Julie was captivated and I must admit, I was impressed; the Dandie, in spite of being a Terrier, possesses a quiet dignity, and a happy outgoing disposition. They aren't yappy dogs, and despite a weight of only 18 to 24 pounds, give voice to the bark of a much larger dog.
We talked about it through the Summer and Fall, and finally made our decision just before Christmas. Then the difficulties began; Dandies are a fairly scarce breed, and the litters are generally small. We made enquiries, and were placed on waiting lists, but came up with nothing concrete; finally we were informed that, unless we wished to look in the States, we might have to wait till the end of this year, or longer. Then, just five days prior to my scheduled departure from Ontario, we got a call from a lady just outside of Sarnia who had two 10 week Dandie pups, a male and a female. The Female was already spoken for by a couple in Edmonton, and she had intended to raise the male to show, but decide that, while his physical properties were perfect, he just wasn't as outgoing as what she felt a champion should be. Kind of like me; a little shy.
We had to go for an interview; a good breeder, unlike puppy mill owners, won't sell to just anyone. Another breeder brought Clay's sire and Grandbitch, both of whom held titles, the sire being a North American Grand Champion. We were both immediately smitten, and then apprehensive about whether we would make a passing grade on the interview. The owners mother had wanted the puppy, but, unfortunately could no longer live with her daughter due to infirmity, and had just been placed in a nursing home. However, we were informed that she wanted to know all about us as potential Dandie family material. In the end we passed the litmus test, and exchanged a large stack of bills for little Clay. It seemed like a large price to pay for a dog, but, when you consider that a Dandies life span is 15 years, it works out to $100 per year. Where else can you find entertainment and adoration for that kind of money; think of how much we pay for cable or satellite TV and, really, what do you get in return for that money?
The Dandie Dinmont Terrier was developed in the 17th century as a breed specializing in vermin, particularly badgers. If you know anything about the 'badger baiting' rings of Europe, you will know that badgers are about the equivalent of our North American raccoons; it takes a damned good dog to kill one, and, more often than not, the dog comes out the loser in these contests. When you look at a Dandie done up for show they strike you as perhaps just a little effeminate; it's only when you run your hands over the powerful neck, and feel the huge muscle development of the forelegs, that you begin to realize what you are actually dealing with. Throw in that row of needle sharp teeth and you begin to see that, rather than a lap dog, what you actually have is a sawed off 'gator, dressed in a heavy wool sweater and big fluffy toque! Unlike other Terrier breeds, many who have a tendency to be, 'one man' animals, the Dandie is a family dog, and, unless there is a reason otherwise, loves all equally.
Originally from the 'border country' of Scotland, in the area of Hadrian's Wall, the Dandie Dinmont takes its name from a character in "Guy Mannering", a novel by Walter Scott. "Dandie Dinmont" was a Scottish farmer in the novel, who owned four dogs of this particular breed. It is the first Terrier breed to be registered, and, at that moment was given its novel name. On November 17, 1875, at the Fleece Hotel in Selkirk on the Scottish Borders, the Dandie Dinmont Terrier Club was formed. It is one of the oldest pedigree clubs in the world.
The name "Claymore" comes from the Gaelic and means, literally, "Big Sword", and it seemed appropriate due to the extreme length of the little dog. I now have three 'Claymores', but this latest addition to the Mackay Clan is my favorite. Yes, that's my boy Clay, and, one of these days, we'll have to get him a black leather kilt, just like the one worn by his old man!
james
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