The Number One Dog in Victoria

Chapter 3 Deciding WE BEGAN to look at dogs in the neighbourhood. Some we saw out walking and some in the near-by animal shelter. Because we lived in an apartment, we felt a small dog would be best although I preferred a dog who barked, if noise were needed, rather than yapped as very small dogs seem to do. In other words, a bass or tenor, not a soprano. We later learned from people who had large dogs in even smaller apartments that their dogs sleep all the time at home. So size doesn’t seem to matter much, as long as the dogs get out often. We were too ignorant to think of such issues as shedding or the personality of the various breeds. We would have been content with a small mongrel. The shelter had only large dogs. A staff member explained that many people acquire cute little puppies, then become alarmed as they grow into 35-40 kilogram food consumption factories. The few small dogs that come to this shelter come in the morning and are normally gone in a few hours. My wife, Mary Louise, met some people walking Wheaten Terriers, a breed I had never heard of. She thought they were good looking dogs, with pleasant dispositions, and about the right size. We began to look for advertisements for such dogs. The closest we found was an ad for a Schwheaten, a Miniature Schnauzer-Wheaten Terrier cross. And so, with a trip to the breeder who had advertised, the real story finally begins. Our hero was born on June 19, 2000 in the small town of Terra Cotta, Ontario. For his first four months he lived there with his mother and four brothers and sisters. Gradually, the brothers and sisters went away, one at a time, until he and a brother were the only pups left. The brother was taken by his new owner while we were examining the last of the litter. He and his mother lived in a barn. His owner, the breeder, fed them, was a friend to them, let them out to exercise, and took them for rides to the vet, but they remained housed with and under control of their canine mother. We had agreed before making our foray that, since this was the first dog we would consider buying, we were not going to buy right away, no matter what. We were to learn that, in dog licensing and insurance circles a Schwheaten is just called a Mixed Terrier. I also learned later that another name for such a dog is Wheatzer and that his mother was a Miniature Schnauzer, the father a true Schwheaten – half and half.. The father, I was told, had not been invited to express his affections to the mother, at least not by the breeder-owner of a purebred female. When we arrived at the owner’s miniature farm-like setting, the owner took the puppy outside and sat him on a tree stump serving as a table. She said all kinds of nice things about him, but we just looked and petted him. The little fellow was of a shaggy grey colour. The brother, who was taken away while we were there, was all wheaten colour, a yellowish tan. “Our” puppy was so cute I could not entertain the thought of not buying him. Regardless of colour, my mind was immediately made up. I am without sales resistance. I backed away and watched Mary Louise watching him. I was afraid I might have to do a sales job on her, but she had a grin that could have gone from Terra Cotta to Vancouver. Then, it occurred to me that the little guy looked like Crispin, the dog hero of a children’s book I used to read to my children. That dog’s full name was Crispin’s Crispian, an odd name, but it was an odd story and we loved it. Right then I suggested Crispin for his name and Mary Louise cheerfully agreed. A deal was quickly closed for the purchase. So much for planning and sensible intentions. It happened that we were planning to go away for the coming weekend so we agreed to pick him up the following Tuesday, which was to be October 24, 2000. Comment by Crispin I didn’t know what was going on here. I was sad to see my brother picked up and carried off by a strange person. I never thought such a terrible thing could happen to me. Between decision and delivery, as with the coming birth of a first child, there is shopping to be done. The dog, like the child, needs a place to sleep suited to his size and physical needs. For the child there are clothes, including diapers. For the dog there is a leash and collar. For both there is the need for feeding implements suited to the newcomer’s expected manner of eating and drinking. For sleeping, all the dog books recommend what they call a crate, actually a wire cage. These are readily available and the suggestions are that the best kind is fitted to his size, not the biggest the owners can afford. Dogs feel safe in a snug space. They also need something soft to sleep on. An old bed pillow of ours sufficed and, although since replaced, that type bedding is still in use. We did not continue use of the crate as Crispin grew up. The books all recommend not one of those extendable leashes for a puppy, but about a two-meter, fixed length one. This gives better control over a puppy inclined to wander, which it turned out Crispin did. Settled. Then we got a neck collar, a lucky guess because we found the larger harnesses kept coming off him and smaller ones chafed his legs. Now, dogs don’t need spoons and forks, but they do need dishes which should be fitting for the royal self. So, separate dishes for solid food and drink were carefully thought about and procured, although they were pretty much like the ones everyone else thinks about and gets. Mostly, the differences among them were only size or decoration. The water dish is carefully designed to be virtually impossible to tip over. The food dish is too heavy for a small dog to tip and nearly impossible for him to pick up in his teeth. Also during the interim, I felt I had heard the name Crispin somewhere recently, but couldn’t place it. We looked in an encyclopedia. It is the name of an obscure saint who lived in the third century. He had a brother, also a saint, named either Crispian or Crispinian. They were of Italian origin but lived in France. As a result of this move to different linguistic areas their names are often spelled differently and the unimaginative naming added to the confusion. According to tradition the brothers were patron saints of leather workers, the trade they followed.1 That more or less explained the odd name of the dog in the story, but not where I had heard it recently. The encyclopedia article also mentioned Shakespeare and that struck a chord as we had recently seen the Kenneth Branagh film Henry V. That is where Henry makes the famous, rousing speech to his army, just before the Battle of Agincourt on October 25, 1415. This date was and still is known as St. Crispin’s Day. Henry, or Kenneth, said the often quoted words found at the end of this chapter. Shakespeare tended to use Crispin or Crispian, or both, interchangeably. A copy of that speech hung over our Crispin’s bed until we moved and he gave up sleeping in just one place, but it’s still on the wall in our bedroom. On the appointed day for getting Crispin, the breeder called and asked if we would mind picking him up the next day, instead. Mild disappointment but no real problem, so we readily agreed. That put the memorable date on October 25, St. Crispin’s Day, a happy coincidence for us and, as Mary Louise likes to say, a good example of Jungian synchronicity. The book I used to read to my eldest child, Debra, got lost somewhere. When the real Crispin came into our lives I tried to find a copy. I thought Crispin’s Crispian was in its title, but it was not and that made it hard for me to find. Eventually, I remembered the author was the famous Margaret Wise Brown, better known by all North American parents for her wonderful book, Goodnight, Moon. Then I found the Crispin book’s title was Mr. Dog.2 It was a Little Golden Book, not often found in libraries, and it was some years before Debra managed to find a used copy. We treasure it. When I finally got to see i