Jack Russell Terrier Open Thread

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9 Comments

  1. I always liked this epitaph by Lord Byron

    Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who
    possessed Beauty without Vanity,
    Strength without Insolence,
    Courage without Ferocity,
    and all the Virtues of Man,
    without his Vices.
    This Praise, which would be unmeaning
    Flattery if inscribed over human
    ashes is but a just tribute to the Memory
    of BOATSWAIN, a Dog.

    [“Boatswain” should be pronounced in the English fashion: “Bo’sun.”]

  2. Checked with our cat. He says the only pets he wants are the ones he already has. And it’s time for breakfast.

  3. MP-S, it’s pronounced Bo’sunmate in the US Navy also.
    It’s Toliver for Taliaferro and Stanton for Staunton in VA. Linguists studying speech in rural Eastern Virginia and Southern Maryland liken the local talk to Elizabethan times. We have two chimlies on our historic house.

  4. When at the racetrack with my dad I always enjoyed seeing those little dogs with the pacing horses.
    Friends of ours had a Jack Russell who would show off by taking a running leap into their pool; paddle to a float; sunbathe for a few minutes. Then off he’d go again.
    Years ago a man would exercise his terrier by having him hunt rats at night in Lafayette Sq., Wash. DC. The dog did a better job than the Sanitation Dept.

  5. The last Jack Russell in my family was when my dad was a kid.

    He got bitten by a rattle snake next to the house; after Grandma killed the snake, he went and laid down in the creek for several days…and fully recovered. As dad put it: not the treatment he would’ve wanted, but it worked.

  6. CAM wrote, “When at the racetrack with my dad I always enjoyed seeing those little dogs with the pacing horses.”

    Hunts always keep a few Jack Russells, for when foxes go to earth. They mix with the pack and can hold their own with the Foxhounds, who tend to be very respectful of them.

    What they lack in speed, they more than make up for in stamina.

  7. Our favorite four legged friend, Finnegan, is about twelve years old, in poor health, and five thousand miles away. One has to love the frantic comedy of the breed. Were I not too old, would have one.

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