Dear Reader

To start off with the question that's been on my mind ever since Mom and I returned from our daily walk around a nearby picturesque lake: Isn't it rather impertinent to stop, point directly at me, and ask me what kind of dog I am??? Do I routinely stop hoomans on the street and inquire as to what kind of hooman they are? Or ask Mom sotto voce "What kind of hooman IS that?" I think not!

My mom has raised me to be the kind of corgi who doesn't say such things in public. She didn't have to worry about the pointing piece for two unrelated reasons:

One: I can't use my toes to make a pointing gesture . . . I could use my nose, I suppose.
Two: I am a proud member of the Herding Group. I don't point because it's not in my job description. Herding, on the other hand, requires not only being smarter than the average dog but also to have a keen sense of hearing. Thus comes the title "herding group."

I guess some folks are so surprised to see a handsome fella such as ME that they just naturally blurt out "WHAT KIND of dog is THAT?" If it's a hooman's child (child is what they call their pups), you can be guaranteed that 8 out of 10 encounters of the child kind will result in the ice cream covered darling rushing at me as if I were a football they wanted to intercept. I am NOT a football: my waist is quite trim and I have legs. Ok, so maybe the legs are a little difficult to see, but a brindle cardi has a tail: a football does not. Elementary Analogies 101.

To continue . . . sorry for the side tracking but when an idea pops into my head I veer off just as I do when I sniff a calling card tree and rush over to leave mine there too. There, I did it again--not mark, just veer.

Again, to continue: I am the sort of herder that when I see a small hooman puppy rushing towards me I automatically think it's a sheep breaking away from its herd buddies. So, given my job in life, I want to herd it back to its momma.

Feinting to right and left while moving forward towards the child results in the child shrieking either with delight or terror and me thinking I am about to be attacked.

Mom has repeatedly explained to hoomans with children that "It's not nice for your child to scare my dog."

"Scare your dog? Lady, your dog went for my kid! There otta be a law."

"There is," Mom patiently replies, gritting her canines. And she has long ones--Funny . . . being 'long in the tooth' in the dog world is a compliment not derision for getting older. Go figure. Hoomans. You just never know what they'll mess up next..

Both hooman parents sneer.

She continues: "That's why I have Skeezix on his leash, so he won't bother people. And why I carry these zip lock bags. I'm nothing if not considerate."

"Well," sniffs the daddy hooman with the rather large beer belly, "I know what I saw. And your runty dog went for our kid."

At this point I chime in with my best rolling growl: "Runty dog indeed. One of my brothers was the small one of our litter and he did develop rather a challenging Napoleon Complex as he got older, kind of like the hooman who has to warm the basketball bench because she's too short. Short, by the way, is a subject to be avoided when talking to a corgi. Any idiot knows that.

"My dog is on his leash. I don't see a similar restraint being used on your child," Mom retorts tersely. "There ought to be a law." And we walk off with me stopping at the first available vertical object to leave my card, casually kicking up dirt clods in those hoomans' general direction. Enough is enough. A dog has to do what he has to do to maintain his self-respect.

The other thing that Mom and I find challenging is the hooman who stops, looks with their head cocked slightly to one side, smiles and says breathily through their smile, "Oooooooooooo. What a sweet little doggie. It looks just like a husky only shorter. And those eeeeears. Aren't they just the cutest ears you've ever seen? It makes her look just like a little German Shepherd! They must be just WONDERFUL little doggies, so much nicer than the big ones . . . and so pretty, too. Ooooooooooooooo, here little girl, here. Come see the nice lady."

That does it. Girl! Really. It's my fantastic tail and pants, not to mention the heart-shaped white patch on my brow that make hoomans think I'm a bitch. NO! I am a fine speciman of the breed . . . A MALE corgi and proud of it. "Say where is a fire hydrant when you need one? I can prove I'm a he . . . just watch me."

"Where can I get a dog like that? Are they expensive? Do you think the pet shop could order one for me? What kind of dog did you say it was?"

An 'IT" indeed, I am still on the show circuit and, much to Mom's chagrin, I am still a real man. Mom gets embarassed at my show behavior--well, all that testosterone and estrogen flying around in the air just naturally makes me want to strut my stuff by snarling and lunging at the nearest mastiff or great dane. My momma is so grateful that gentle leaders and strong leashes were invented. Small dog! HA!

Mom has perfected her responses to such breathy inquiries. She replies, "Oh, it's a West Highland Weasel Terrier. They are extremely rare both here and in Scotland, where they originated in the fifth century CE to help the Celts manage the terrible rodent problems they were having in their chicken coops and under the family bed."

"A West-High-land-Wea-sul Terrier. Never heard of one before."

"See. That's just how rare they are. You'll never find one in a pet store, for heaven sakes. People wait years for one since they only breed every seven years. The waiting lists are excruciatingly long. And of course there's the hair problem."

"Hair problem?" nervously responds the hopeful wannabe weasel terrier owner. "What hair problem" Do they have mange or something dreadful like that?"

"No," Mom says with conviction and then continues on in an ecstatic tone of voice bordering on rapture. "You see, the Celts were thrifty folks and never wasted a thing. That's why the Weasel Terriers of today have such splendidly thick coats. And not just one coat but two: an outer one to keep the dirt out and a dense inner one resembling goose down, only much, much thicker than any goose's down, that's for certain.

"Well, the Celts, as I was saying, were and remain a thrifty lot. Rather than wasting the huge dust bunnies caused by the Weasel Terrier's constant shedding . . . so much so, that we Weasel lovers affectionately call the super-sized dust bunnies under all the furniture and rolling across the dining room floor in the slightest breeze the 'extra dog." The Celts used the copious hair fuzzies to knit into the most intricate sweaters, caps, socks and nose warmers. The tradition of dog knitting continues today. Go to any West Highland Weasel Terrier gathering or watch their owners on TV at the Westminster, and you'll be sure to see many women *and* men sporting tartan caps and sweaters in many shades of grey, "blue," black, sable, red and brindled brown. Oh, it's a sight to behold. No doubt about it."

"The second dog?????" asks the hooman, who has started backing away down the sidewalk.

"Oh, yes. And that one never needs house breaking. Did I mention the need for newspapers for at least the first four years? That's what you get for living with such a head-strong Weasel. Yep! Lots of paper towels too."

At that point we can only see the hooman's back slowly receeding down the street at a quick pace.

Mom highly recommends the Weasel Terrier Rouse for keeping those whom our hoomans feel are not worthy--nor ready--for such smart dogs as we. The world is a better place for it.

Oooops. I think there's a raccoon on the deck. I must give my special raccoon-on-the-deck alarm so Mom will jump up from her reading and give me a cookie so I'll stopp what she calls, "That dreadful barking howl."

Until next time, Dear Reader,
Skeezix an' my Mom who helped me wif typing this thingie an' wif my grammar. It's weird though, Granny isn't even here. Oh, well.