Last night it dipped to freezing. I decided to go out to the barn to check on the heifer’s bedding and to check on the chickens. I brought Kermit, my dog, with me. Instead of companionably following his master into the pasture, he decided to wait, shivering, on the front porch.
Before I go any further, I need to issue a disclaimer: I love my dog. I think he is wonderful. He is trainable, affectionate, and a great snuggler. However, as a farm dog he gives rat terriers a bad name.
Rat terriers are true farm dogs. They herd, guard, hunt, and, as their name suggests, are hell on rodents. An English breed popularized by Teddy Roosevelt, they became one of the most common breeds in the Midwest during the 1930s and 1940s. My Grandfather had one, my Dad had two, I had two as a child, and now my daughter is growing up with Kermit (who is named after T.R.’s son, NOT the frog).
A common theme we find in primary historical documents is a longing for and romanticization of the past – people like to talk or write about the Good Old Days. This is such a common cliché, that we have a name for it: The Declension Model. “Things were great back when I was young, but it has all been a decline since then.”
Cotton Mather, Jonathan Edwards, George Fitzhugh, William Jennings Bryan, Woodrow Wilson, Huey Long, George Wallace, Ronald Reagan, Pat Robertson, and recently, Tom DeLay have proclaimed their adherence to this model. “If, back in the good old days, we had elected ol’ Strom, we wouldn’t have the problems we have today.”
You can even see it in those insipid after-school specials: If you believe the Lifetime Network, Teenagers today have more stress than at any time in history: Drugs! Sex! Consumerism! Peer pressure! Drinking! Anorexia! Alcoholic parents! Lions, tigers, and bears, oh my!
Now, generally, I tend to scoff at the declension model. We are living in a bloody golden age. Last I checked, high school seniors aren’t concerned that when the graduate they’ll be packed off to
“Beach Party Vietnam.” Spare me the peer pressure crap. (Then again, given the Bush administration’s determination to fight a guerilla war on the cheap, we may be in a similar position in a few more years).
What Cotton Mather saw as a decline – a reduction of the power of the established church, I view as progress. What Wallace saw as a decline I see as progress - “forever” didn’t last very long, did it, you schoolyard-barring segregationist? What Roberston sees as decline I see as progress: “
Feminism is about a socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism, and become lesbians.”
After re-reading that last sentence, I guess I need to clarify that I am in favor of equality for women, not killing your children. That’s usually bad.
By now the patient is reader is probably at the end of his or her rope: “So tell me, Minister of Agriculture, what does the declension model of history have to do with farm dogs?”
Well, let me tell ya.
While the declension model is an inaccurate way to look at history, it seems to me that the declension model does apply to rat terriers.
Modern rat terrier Kermit:
* Would rather be inside in a comfy chair than checking out the animals in the barn.
* Has stopped killing rabbits because he has learned that he ends up getting a bath afterwards. He used to kill rabbits in the garden. But once he began plunging his head into their stomach cavity, I would take it away, and then wash the gore off of his face. Kermit is smart. I guess he figured out that he won’t get to revel in the glory of the corpse AND he will get a bath. So now he just chases them. Sometimes we inadvertently train our dogs and children the wrong way.
* Is nervous and cowardly around other dogs.
* Is easily distracted.
* Is scared of my calves.
“Good Old Days” rat terrier Boots:
* Fought a bull to save his master’s life.
* Once killed a dozen rats in six seconds.
* Herded cows.
* Didn’t take crap from any other dog.
* Was focused on his work.
Boots was a legendary canine. Many of my father’s fond childhood memories revolve around this feisty little rat terrier.
My father’s father was not renowned for his anger management. Once, while working with a Holstein bull, he pulled too hard and yanked out the bull’s nose ring. Dairy bulls are temperamental, aggressive, extremely dangerous and huge. One of the biggest benefits (aside from genetic improvement) of the rise of artificial insemination is that dairy farms are much safer places without these beasts. But back in the 1930s and 40s, cows were bred naturally. To contain the bulls, you had to build six foot tall solid wood stalls. This is a good way to keep the bull from attacking you when you walk by the pen. But it is also a good way to get killed if the bull attacks you while you are in the pen.
Grandpa’s deringification (is that a word - hell, I’m German - it’s a word now) enraged the bull. It reared and knocked him to the ground. Trapped by the walls of the pen, laying on the ground, Grandpa was doomed – the hooves would grind him to dust.
But old Boots came a runnin’, leapt the six foot partition, and took on the bull - a little twenty-five pound dog prepared to fight a one ton package of truculence for his master. Normally Boots would head for the back legs of cattle to herd them, but on this day, sensing that he needed to distract and detour, he went after the bull’s chest and nose. His assault was so furious and bewildering, the bull completely forgot his vengeance and my grandfather was able to scramble to safety.
He also lived up to his rat terrier name, acting as the prince of rat control on the farm. One day when they were cleaning out the grain bin, a lifted sack of feed revealed a dozen rats which immediately began to flee. But there was no safety. Quick as a flash, Boots was amongst them, biting, shaking, dropping, biting, shaking, dropping, biting, shaking, dropping. I have seen Kermit and Patches, my childhood terrier, do the rat terrier neck shake. They grab and then give a powerful shake the breaks the neck of the rodent. Patches once shook a mouse so hard the detached head flew across the carport. You can actually hear the bones snap from twenty feet away. But I have never seen them kill multiple rodents that quickly. Knowing that he did not have time to play with his quarry or to savor the kill, Boots efficiently killed and moved on before they could escape. He was true to his breeding. For a quick discussion of rat killing records, check out this link:
http://www.staffordmall.com/stoutheart-rats.htm
I’m not sure if I support rat killing as a sport – it seems to be a practical exercise on a farm. For a visual example of the English ratting sport, you might check out the movie “The Great Train Robbery” starring Sean Connery. It shows an English sporting club for gentlemen in which ratters do their thing.
Boots was also a good herding dog. Ratters seems to have a natural instinct to go to the back of leg of the herdee. Boots was excellent at this and was used twice a day to bring the cows into the barn. Usually this was simple since cows want to be milked. But on one occasion, a bossy cow refused to go into her stanchion and broke out of the barn, heading for the back forty. Dad just called out “Git ‘er!” and Boots was after her like a rocket. The cow ran all the way to the back of the forty acres with Boots on her heels, leaping with every second stride to nip at her back leg. Boots, of course, new enough to nip for persuasion rather than damage; he distinguished between bovine and rodent quarry. At the back of the pasture, with nowhere to go to escape her relentless pursuer, she gave up and hightailed it back to her barn where she was quite content in her stanchion.
Dad grew up in Elkhorn, Wisconsin. My grandmother used to bring in a bit more money for the homestead by working as a maid for the rich folks around Lake Geneva. Every year she would open up their summer houses. Farmers don’t get many days off, but once a year Grandpa would drive his wife and Dad to Lake Geneva. While Grandma cleaned, Dad and grandpa would go fishing off the lake house docks.
One year, a group of young rich kids came along and spotted the “lower class” kid fishing on “their pier.” I guess they thought it would be fun to kill the poor kid’s dog, so they sent their German Shepard to attack Boots. After hearing the “sic ‘em” command, the German Shepard came barreling down the pier, intent on doing in Boots. Boots jumped up and galloped to MEET the Shepard halfway. Within seconds, the much larger dog was yelping and hauling ass. You attack a rat terrier at your own risk.
I remember Patches being the alpha dog over a collie. My Dad’s current dog Reilley desperately tried to breed the Maximum Leader’s whippet/retriever even though he could walk under Maia’s belly. Ratters are generally confident, bold dogs. But Kermit, God love him, cowers in fear whenever he meets a new dog. Maia is a gentle soul who just wants to play with him, but poor Kermit is just terrified of her.
Kermit is also easily distracted. Boots stayed very focused on his work. When my Dad was just five or six, one of his jobs was to take the cows to graze between the cornfield and the road. My grandparents couldn’t afford to refence the farm, so there was nothing to keep the cows from leaving the grass and eating the corn. Except a boy and his dog. Dad and Boots would sit out in the strip of grass. Whenever the cows started to move toward the corn, dad would tell Boots to go round them up. Pretty soon, Dad became irrelevant. The cows would decide to try the corn and Boots, without a word from Dad, would stand up and growl. The cows would move away from the corn and Boots would lie down. Until the next time they eyed the corn.
I wonder if my grandchildren will tell stories like this about their mother’s childhood dog.
Probably not. Terriers are just not what they used to be in the good old days.
