Jack Russell Terriers

Having written about my new puppy last month and touched upon Jack Russell, his terriers and The Jack Russell Club of Great Britain I thought it might be interesting to have a look at the present situation regarding "The Breed"? I put the word breed in inverted commas as I doubt very much if such a breed actually exists. A type, certainly but a breed I doubt it. 

As I understand it, a breed of anything has to have certain characteristics which remain true throughout any mating which may occur and all of those characteristics have to be present in each and every breeding. So, if for example, one selected a male from anywhere in the world and crossed it with a female of the same breed the resulting progeny would be the same as the two parents. Having had a considerable amount of experience in breeding terriers and, in terriers generally, referred to as Jack Russell's, I know that quite often the expected puppies differ from the parents, sometimes to an alarming degree. I don't know what the criteria is for establishing a breed. I would imagine a breed only becomes established when a particular group of animals breed true, consistently, over a number of years. I doubt if that is the case with many of the, so called, Jack Russell type of terriers on the market today. 

Having spoken to a number of enthusiastic terrier breeders over the years, and I mean real enthusiasts, not puppy sellers, it would appear, in general terms, they have to resort to the addition of out breeding periodically to maintain the type they desire. This could mean using, for example, a Lakeland Terrier or Fox Terrier in order to enhance particular qualities or strengthen a desirable characteristic. Having seen firsthand the vast array of farm yard terriers on the market, being sold under the heading of Jack Russell, I am unconvinced that any such "breed" actually exists. Since last month's article I have had the opportunity to have a look at the web sites of The Jack Russell Terrier Club of Great Britain, The Kennel Club and The Parson Russell Terrier Club. Sadly, I am more confused now than I was before I started. The Kennel Club actually attribute, what they call, a Jack Russell to breeders in Australia. It would appear their standard for the breed was formulated by Australian breeders whom, the clubs literature tells the reader, took their terriers with them when they emigrated. The Jack Russell Terrier Club of Great Britain's breed standard is actually accredited to The Jack Russell Terrier Club of America. Why they were unable to formulate a breed standard of their own I find mind boggling. Especially as they claim to have put together the true standard in England forty years ago. 

They also claim Parson Russell Terriers are now so rare as to almost have disappeared. But most incredible of all they claim the "true working Jack Russell Terrier" is, "Safe, where it always has been, long before the Sporting Parson bought one, in the hands of real working terrier men and women". Well, there you have it a type of terrier existed that was working long before Parson Russell obtained his first terrier, no doubt about that. However, it was not known as a Jack Russell terrier "long before the Parson bought one", it may have been called a Bill Smith or Brain Jones terrier or, indeed,any other name you care dream up but the type of terrier now known as a Jack Russell did not become named as such until the Rev Russell's terriers became the object of admiration and were unheard of before that event. One would think, indeed, expect a club claiming to represent a breed would, at the very least, not make such basic errors in its publicity material. The point they also appear to make regarding working terriers is a valid one but working terriers of the Jack Russell type were by no means unique to the Rev Russell. They were quite wide spread within the country community. Times were different as were attitudes and the landed gentry and rich hunted all manner of animals with all kinds of dogs. Much of what they did in those days would today be illegal and many of the species they hunted are protected. But, hunt, they did and they used the best type dog for the job and or the species they were pursuing. The Sealyham Terrier which originated in Wales was used to hunt fox, martin, polecat, badger and pretty much anything else that would provide some sport. It was quite similar to the Jack Russell terrier type in its shape and size and was quite different from the modern version, 

The Kennel Club Sealyham which is short legged and square headed and probably couldn't chase its own shadow has no resemblance to the original terrier. Mrs. Alice Serrel, also of Devon, kept and bred a working type of terrier which was as near as could be to the Russell type. Her terriers were also required to run with hounds and, therefore, were long in the leg. It doesn't take much time or effort when researching the Jack Russell Terrier to realise the fact that the, so called, breed represented a type of working terrier which had been for many, many years popular throughout the west country and elsewhere. Used to bolt foxes, this type of terrier had to keep up with hounds and walk to the meet and back again. Sometimes the hack to the meet would have been forty miles and that's before hunting started. What all this boils down to is the fact hunt terriers had to have a huge amount of stamina and short legged little ratters would not have managed such a heavy schedule, often,several times a week.

Back to the Rev. Russell, he bought his famous terrier Trump from a milkman in Acton ! He also much admired the terriers bred by Devonshire couple Tom and Rubie French and would have appear "to have bought a number from that couple. The Rev. also admits, in one passage of a book I have,French often used Beagle, Whippet and Bulldog to add, correct or enhance various characteristics he desired in his terriers". So no breed there then, just a type.

Having researched, over a period of many years, the life and times of Jack Russell and read most of what is written about him I feel I have a fairish idea of the man and his character. Unlike many hunting parsons of his era he did not neglect his flock and, although not a rich man, he was kind to those in greater need than himself. Particularly so with the local gipsies. I have no doubt he would not have been impressed with all the fuss about a group of terriers masquerading under his name. Furthermore and, perhaps the greatest irony of all, the Rev. Russell was not named Jack, his name was,in fact, John.

Dogs, etc

Sadly, in November our aged border terrier Fred died after a short illness. He had been a delightful little character and was much loved. However, he had a long life and remained fit until just a few days before he passed away. Not only did his death come as a surprise to us it was doubly so as we have an aged lurcher which we had completely expected to depart before Fred. Fergus, the lurcher, has been very unsteady on his feet for some time and for a while began losing weight. It does appear that he has found a new lease of life and, although still unsteady, he has put back the weight he lost and is now eating well again. All of this meant we were left with the elderly dog and, of course, our two year old lurcher Bertie, which I have previously written about. As we don’t expect Fergus to go on long into the future we decided that it would be a good idea to get a puppy. Having been used to company all his life we felt it unfair, when the time comes, for him to be left on his own.

We decided we would get a Jack Russell terrier and began to look for one. The first thing that struck me was just how much rubbish there is out there in terms of dogs/puppies. I have never heard of such bizarre crosses. Jugs, Cocker Doodle, Labra Doodles and many more. I can’t think for the life of me why people make such crosses. Most of our existing dog breeds have been bred for a specific purpose and have stood the test of time. Why mend it if it isn’t broke? I even came across several adverts for puppies which included crossing a perfectly good breed with Chihauhuas. What on earth are they trying to create? The truth is these people are creating mongrels with no apparent purpose for the breeding. It, however, quickly becomes clear the price for such abominations is always high. For the most part none of the puppies I discovered were on the market for less than £300. The truth is, if they have a worth at all, these mixes should not command a price any higher than £20. 

I eventually abandoned my internet search and began putting the word out between friends and acquaintances and I was lucky to get a fairly quick response from one mate whom knew of gamekeeper with a litter of terrier puppies and he assured me they were the right type. A visit was made to said keeper and a puppy selected. The litter was beautiful and an absolute credit to the breeder. So it was that we bought Humphrey a superb little tyke. He is everything we had hoped for and all that a terrier should be. He is proud and has a fair bit of attitude. He has taken to Bertie extremely well and they are almost inseparable. In fact we have been amazed just how much Bertie defers to the puppy. If Bertie is given a treat the pup grabs it from him and runs off and, most incredible of all, Bertie will even tolerate the puppy diving into his feed bowl and helping himself to Bertie's food. Dogs don’t get much more good natured than that. 

Humphrey is the sort of terrier I wanted, with beating in mind, for next season. He is of the confirmation of the original Jack Russells which the old parson was famed for. Humphrey will be about twelve or fourteen inches at the shoulder when he is mature, with straight legs and a good rough coat. His ears are not held up but bend over at the tips and he carries himself like a dream. Having said all this, and I am aware that the Jack Russell is now recognised as a breed by The Kennel Club, the dogs bearing the Jack Russell name were always of a type rather than a breed.

As a founder member of The Jack Russell Club of Great Britain many years ago, I do know a bit about them and have done a huge amount of research into the parson and his life. Parson Russell’s terriers were rough coated and high on the leg and were expected to run with hounds during a day’s fox hunting. They were not heavily built but slender enough to go to ground and bolt a fox when needed which is exactly what they were bred for. The parson’s famous terrier, Trump, was just such a dog and the rriers that followed,and carried the Jack Russell name, were all of a similar standard, shape and size. Looking through the adverts for Jack Russell’s today makes it pretty clear that any form of farm terrier, bandy legged, short or rough coated, and mostly short in the leg are given the title and sold for extortionate prices. 

I would be the last to suggest that some of these delightful little tykes do not work well and become quite useful little workers in a number of areas, not least, ratting. But, Jack Russell’s they are not. When I was involved with the breed club we did not seek Kennel Club recognition and most real enthusiasts didn’t want it either. However, it proved that many of the members were as feisty as their terriers which resulted in breakaway groups and a Parson Russel Terrier club being formed. 

I have long held the view that many of those people were only interested in inflating the prices they could command for their puppies and the long term welfare of the terrier was not of much concern to them. One only has to look at the ridiculous prices now being asked for such terriers to feel vindicated in having nothing to do with such clubs and their activities any more. I was not ripped off for my little chap and clearly his breeder was not motivated by large amounts of money for his puppies. He was a genuine working dog enthusiast and his great joy was having produced a litter of superb terriers all of which were going to working homes. Long may people of that calibre remain and prosper. 

Old bangers

Anyone who has followed my jottings for any length of time will, no doubt, recall an article I wrote many moons ago relating how I became a Master of Mink Hounds and the formation of The Tandridge Mink Hounds which I ran for a good few years. Any pack of hounds needs a vehicle to be able to operate and the Tandridge was no exception. The country we hunted was huge, taking in half of Surrey and half of Kent. The distances we had to travel to meets were such that we could not have managed without transport. We, actually, had two vehicles one for hound transport and the other for transporting feed.

The other evening I was watching an edition of The Antiques Road Trip on the television and it brought back a flood of memories from my mink hound days. For those not familiar with the program, it basically, involves two antique experts travelling around an area of Britain in some sort of old /vintage car, and buying antiques for auction. The trip takes several stages with an auction at the end of each stage. The winner is the expert who has made the most money at the end of the "trip".

Well, you might ask what on earth has all this got to do with mink hunting in Surrey many years ago ? In the program I watched the other evening the vehicle which the two experts had been given for their trip turned out to be a Bedford Dormobile coloured powder blue. The same model of vehicle which we had used as a hound van and in the same colour. Our vehicle had been found for sale by one of our hunt members and I was assured that it was both a bargain and in good condition. Given that this all happened a long time ago I can't remember the exact price we paid for the old Bedford but the figure of seventy five pounds sticks in the back of my mind. In any event we bought this treasure and having done so the first thing which had to change was the colour. No self respecting mink hunt could possibly be seen driving around the country side in a vehicle painted powder blue, what would people think ! So it was that we bought a large, very large, can of paint of a shade which I would describe as army green. Quite a deep green but not khaki. The paint was applied to the vehicle by a team of enthusiastic painters by hand with brushes. When the task had been completed, all concerned agreed, it was a great improvement. The only trouble was the whole of the exterior of the vehicle was covered in the new improved shade but the interior was not. All surfaces within remained the dreaded powder blue. Open up any of the doors and the awful colour was there for the world to see. It was decided by the proud owners that this would have to be put up with as to strip out all the bits and pieces from within the vehicle in order to paint the interior metal surfaces would be far to complex and time consuming. Having painted our hound van we then had to construct a barrier behind the front seats in order to confine the hounds to the back section and prevent them from having access to the driving area. I found it quite amazing how many talents existed within the group of hunt supports we had attracted. Every time we needed a job doing some good soul would come forward with the skills and, hey presto, job done. We had a strong weld mesh screen in place in no time , fixed securely, which lasted the life of the vehicle. That van did us proud and proved to be very reliable as far as the motoring side of things went. Its major problem, we soon discovered, was the fact that the side, sliding door, slid rather too well. Each time it was operated the damned thing slid right out of it's guides and fell to the floor. We never succeeded in overcoming this problem, the solution being to keep it locked at all times. The door lock being a bit dodgy we bolted,on to the side of the van, a clasp and secured it with a padlock. The hound van went with the rest of the hunt to our neighbouring pack when I was transferred with my job to Dorset.

The second vehicle the hunt used was my Bedford Beagle van which, as it happened,was also painted a dark green but its paint job had been done by its makers Vauxhall. The van was affectionately known by all as the Flying Dustbin. It got this name from the fact that I used it to transport swill which was donated by the officers mess at Wandsworth Prison where I was serving at the time. Each day I would take out a plastic bin of the food waste from the mess and leave a clean bin ready to be filled. I got the idea from an article I had read regarding a military pack of hounds which fed food waste from its mess to hounds . I doubt if it could happen today since we are now swamped with petty regulations. In any event, our hounds thrived on that food and they looked in prime condition, so much so, that we won numerous prizes at the hound shows we entered.The van proved to be a reliable workhorse and did us well for a lot of years.The only negative event occurred when I was driving home one evening loaded up with a full bin of swill. The bin was located behind the drivers seat in the back of the van,being a van, there were no back seats. Just as I was approaching a cross roads at Sutton some lunatic pulled out in front of me from my left. I hit the breaks, the van stopped abruptly, and the bin of swill came forwards at a great force and covered me with its contents.Not nice ! The Flying Dustbin came to an abrupt and sudden end.One winters morning I set of for work at an early hour and a few hundred yards away from home I hit a large patch of black ice, the Flying Dustbin slid sideways, hit the curb and flipped over on to its side drivers side down. After the initial shock, and the overwhelming smell of spilt petrol, I made my exit via the passenger door which was then facing the sky.Incredibly I was unhurt. On the humorous side of the incident, there was an elderly lady walking along the opposite pavement. It was actually dark and I assume she was going to get her newspaper. The poor dear witnessed the whole incident and as I climbed out through the door she went into a series of screams before running away. I don't know, to this day, who she was or why she did a runner, did she think I was sort alien ? Oh well that's life. 

Rats

It Is a fact of life,if you keep poultry, you will have rats. In fact if you keep almost any kind of stock you will, sooner or later, attract rats. Apart from the obvious health hazards associated with rats they are a major nuisance in that they chew things and they dig holes all over the place. They nest in hay or straw stacks and generally do a lot of damage. The most effective way of dealing with a rat population is to poison it. You go to your local agricultural dealer and buy a box /bucket of rat "Bait" which you then administer and after a few days when you notice that the said bate is not being eaten the rats will be dead or dying. Of course, we old country boys who have dealing with these creatures for years also pursue them with air rifles and terriers, and some, even use ferrets for a bit of ratting. All good fun, but not really effective in getting rid of a rat infestation. 

Having had poultry of some form or another for most of my years on this earth I have used rat bait for as long as I care to remember. As with all things there are right and wrong ways of using these substances. It is, of course, important to ensure that other animals cannot,and do not, eat rat bait. It will, for example, kill a dog. It, therefore, always needs to be used with caution and by following the instructions on the container it comes in. In order to protect wild birds, and indeed poultry, the bait should be administered in covered containers into which rats can gain access but, other creatures cannot. These containers have inner compartments which help to prevent spillage if the container is knocked over or overturned. So there you have it, all fairly straight forward, you may think,and yes it should be. Well it used to be until, that is, the politicians got involved.

Let me say straight away I am not a political person and the following is not political in that sense. I have a fairly simple view of politicians, of all shades and persuasions, I don’t like them. For the most part they are dishonest chancers, most of whom have never had a proper job or done a decent days work. I would be more inclined to trust a secondhand car salesman. If you think this is all a bit extreme let me remind you of the expenses fiddles and the fact that nearly all of them got away with it claiming ignorance or misunderstanding. Excuses that would, most certainly, not be available to you and I in similar circumstances. If all that were not enough look at their lavish redecoration expense for grace and favour housing and their,even more lavish, "fact finding" trips around the world. Not to mention, the many corporate jollies and gifts they receive. All, of course, perfectly legal … nice. 

What, you may ask, has all this got to do with rats ? Well, I discovered, a few months ago that rat bait legislation was changing. I found this out when I went to buy some in the usual way, and was told, by the person serving me, soon I would need a certificate / licence to continue to purchase rat bait. That was the first bit, soon thereafter, came another announcement advising that the strength of rat bait was going to be reduced.

Having been using rat bait for over fifty years, one might consider, I knew a little bit about its use. However , I took one of the glossy brochures providing all the info a user needed to comply with the new rules. It quickly became apparent that in order to gain the, now necessary, certificate of competence an exam was required and a fee of £65 would have to be paid. So, a new bureaucratic system costing people, that neither want or need rat bait instruction, a hefty sum and, no doubt, lining the pockets of those providing the advice. I declined their kind offer refusing to be ripped off in this appalling manner. Consider if you will, some months in the winter, when rats come in from the fields and hedgerows, it can cost me in the region of thirty pounds a month to keep them down, I only have three acres. Goodness knows what the costs are to a large farm, they must be huge.

It would appear that a number of politicians, I haven’t bothered to find out who they are, succumbed to lobbying by an ornithological society claiming misuse of rat bait was killing wild birds. This might well be the case, there are, and always will be abusers and misusers of almost anything you can think of. Sadly that is a fact of life. It is also a fact of life that those same abusers will not comply with the rules and will not take, and pay for, a test. All that is achieved in such situations is, quite simply, careful users, following the rules, will be penalised and hit in the pocket. Just look at what previous political bans have achieved, pistols are banned in this country, more gun crime than ever before. Knives for young people under eighteen are banned, more knife crime than ever before. A whole list of drugs are banned, the country is awash with illegal drugs. Quite simply, banning does not, and never has worked.

The problem is, politicians always know best. I did consider writing to my local M.P. and, after due reflection, abandoned the idea. I don’t write to M.P.s often, only twice in the whole of my life. Each time it proved to be a complete waste of time and paper. You see, on both occasions I was wrong and did not fully understand the matters about which I was writing. I was told the M.P.s were right, it just so happens that both are no longer M.P.s, having lost their seats. One having been involved in a scandal over mistakenly buying and expensive carpet on taxpayer funded expenses, who then retired, and the other being kicked out by the electorate for basically being a complete waste of space. The good news is, the latter did get a Knighthood for his failure, you know it makes sense, lovely system we have! Incidentally, both of the matters I wrote about did come to pass and the fears I had expressed were realised. I fear we have two as well as four legged rats in our midst.

So it was that my rat population exploded. Not having received their normal dose of bait, they did what rats do and bred. I found myself surrounded by the nasty creatures. Off I went to the agricultural merchant only to find the bait available to me was now being sold in tiny packages of a few grams and priced at the hefty price of a pound a packet. Translate that into the weight I once was able to buy, three kilos, and the price becomes eye watering. The agri merchants  are as bad as the M.Ps, never miss a chance to fleece someone. I had considered getting my future supplies of rat bait from France, where common sense still seems to prevail but, fortunately, I have found a supplier where I can obtain the normal stuff at the usual price ! Didn’t they do well. Rat problem solved. It would appear there are, would you believe, loopholes in the legislation so, pretty much, business as usual. 

Just a final thought, I doubt very much if the people this cock-up was aimed at are doing anything differently in terms of care. It might just be they are doing nothing at all and the rat population in their areas is growing apace. When, as I suspect it will, it reaches epidemic proportions you will, no doubt, be treated to the inglorious spectacle of the Honourable M.P.s responsible diving down their own rat holes and blaming everyone else.  

2017/18 Shooting season

As I write, towards the end of February, it hardly seems possible that yet another shooting season has come and gone. I seem to recall, as a child, I was told time gets slower as you get older, it seems to me to be the other way around. Be that as it may, yet another season has passed and during all the days I was beating there were only two or three which were wet. Mercifully they were only part days of rain. Believe me, there is nothing worse than starting a day in the rain and continuing to get wet until it is time to go home many hours later. Not good for man or dog. It all becomes particularly unpleasant if the guns stop for lunch. What this means, in practical terms, is the beaters hang around in their cold and wet clothing trying to dry out, knowing full well they are in for a second soaking when the guns return and shooting continues. Fortunately, the keeper on the shoot I go to most often has made a rule that the guns shoot through and lunch at the end of the day. This has been a great success and it also ensures that guns are not handled by people whom have had the odd tipple with their lunch. Say no more! So, for the most part, we had dry days and many of them were sunny and very pleasant. Of course, nothing is ever straightforward, as,on sunny days the pheasants are not in the woods, they are out along the hedgerows dusting and basking in the sunshine. All this means they have to be driven back into the woods and on to the flushing points in order to be presented before the guns. This all takes time and a lot of walking but in the sun it is rather a nice way to spend a few hours. 

Bertie, my young Lurcher, was a year old at the beginning of the season. This was as I planned it because I wanted to be able to take him beating and to begin the job of teaching him his part in the shooting calendar. Any Lurcher worth his salt wants to work and the selection of a puppy from working stock is just the start of the process. During the weeks and months leading up to the season, basic obedience has to be taught and a good standard achieved. There is absolutely no point in arriving at a shoot with a dog which is out of control, the most likely outcome of such a situation is to be sent home by the keeper. A bad dog can very quickly ruin the day's shooting and that would not be a good thing for man or beast. Fortunately, Bertie was receptive and took well to training, he was a quick learner and, I am happy to claim, puts a lot of more experienced dogs to shame. He comes back when called, he stays when told to do so and I can drop him in the down position with a hand signal and at long distances. All of which commends him to shoot keepers. There is always a worry with a new dog that it might be gun shy. Some dogs hear the bang of a gun and are gone. This is something which, as far as I am aware, is with them for life and, I think, incurable. However, thankfully, Bertie does not suffer from that problem. 

Lurchers are by nature, and for the most part, quite clever dogs. I say for the most part as, with any breed or strain of dog, there are always the idiots which appear to be beyond training. The makeup of a proper Lurcher usually includes Greyhound and Collie. The Greyhound being the fastest dog and, therefore, providing speed and the Collie being brainy and providing intelligence. Together these two qualities should make for a very good working dog and, trained well, usually do. One of the biggest matters to overcome in the shooting field, when working a Lurcher, is the fact that they are gazehounds. This means they hunt by sight and not by scent. Working by sight has its benefits but it is also desirable for the dog to use its nose as well. Bertie took to locating and flushing pheasants by sight as though he had been born for it. Which, since he was brought into the world for hunting, is not that surprising. However, it has taken most of the season to train him into using his nose as well. This, really, is just a question of regular and frequent contact with the pheasants in cover where sighting is difficult if not. impossible. The nose, therefore, becomes an essential part in both locating and flushing the birds. Well, don't you just know it, at almost exactly the moment when the penny dropped and Bertie got the idea that nose equals pheasants the season came to an end. Fortunately, dogs have a very good memory and my expectation is, at the beginning of next season, Bertie will pick up pretty much where he left off. So what do we do now and until October when it all starts again? Well there will be a bit a rabbiting and chasing the odd grey squirrel. Training never stops and most days when we go out there is a session of training, all of which is, wrapped up as a game and a fun thing to do. Also long summer walks to keep us both fit, well assuming that is, that we get a summer. 

Autumn

It’s the time of year again when my routine changes quite dramatically all the way through until the end of the winter. Autumn is with us and that, for me and many others, means the beginning of the shooting season. The truth is, I don’t actually do much shooting these days, I have the odd day here and there and that suits me nicely. My particular love is beating. Once again, as with so many things in life, that love began in my childhood at Kingsley in a time when there were quite a lot of shoots in the area and, then as now, young boys were welcome. I was going on to write, well behaved boys, but in those times all boys were well behaved! Not least because the game keepers would not have minced their words and a clip around the ear was, by no means, out of the question. Somewhat different from today’s attitudes, although a good old fashioned "rollicking" is still a distinct possibility the ear clipping option is long gone. Parents these days would probably get a lawyer involved. Although, true to say, most of the younger lads that come out beating that I have met are pretty good, there have been the odd one or two that have been sent home. Usually because they think they know more than the keeper and are prepared to argue a point, something we would never had done. We knew our place, as the saying goes!

On Thursday of this week we had a work day on one of the shoots which I attend. These days are great fun, lots of banter and gossip. For the most part, when the season finishes,the beating team don’t see one another until it all starts again in the autumn. There are odd occasions when, at country shows or other rural events, one bumps into a fellow beater but, by and large, the team come from far and wide and so meetings out of season are rare. Consequently, pre-season work days are eagerly anticipated and, generally, a good time is had by all. On these days no money changes hands the work is done on a voluntary basis but plenty of snacks, drinks and a good lunch are all provided by the keeper. There are also added bonuses this week, for example, we had to do quite a bit of tree felling in order to open some of the gun stands. Quite a lot of wood was felled and the logs were shared out between the helpers. I came home with the back of my truck filled with some seriously good burning wood. 

Like many of the beaters and, of course the "pickers up", I get the greatest pleasure out of being able to work my dog. To my mind there is nothing quite like working a decent dog in the fields and woods of the English countryside. Beating gives the dog owner an opening for dog work when, otherwise, getting permission from a landowner or farmer can be(understandably) quite difficult. Most gamekeepers encourage well behaved dogs as they can save a lot of time and effort when it comes to flushing birds from thick hedges, brambles and all manner of other difficult terrain. Having trained my lurcher to respect poultry and not to bother them, I now have to teach him that pheasant and partridge although, of course feathered, are perfectly ok to be flushed and made to fly. Thursday, on the work day, was the first time Bertie had encountered pheasants, lots of them. Somehow he seemed to know that there was a difference with these birds and pretty quickly developed an interest in them. Luckily I was able to let him have a couple of runs at the odd pheasant before the day was over and he didn’t disappoint. 

The forecast for our first day isn’t good so I am hoping the forecasters are wrong and the rain keeps off. The cold doesn’t matter but getting soaked, especially before lunch, is pretty miserable and makes the day seem a whole lot longer. Last season was a very good one and we got away with very little rain and most of it later on in the day so here’s hoping. More to follow later.

Jeremy Brown

Having moved from London to Dorset and begun to settle down in our new house and village I began to get to know the neighbours and the local personalities. Jeremy Brown was, what could only be called,the local squire. Well, at least, his father had been in a former era. Father, Captain Brown had built up a large holding of land, been a keen local church supporter and master of the local foxhounds. When he passed on Jeremy took over the land and continued to be a church warden and play a central part of local life. As far as I am aware he was never a Master of Hounds. Living in the Dower House, in a dead end coombe, at the top of the village Jeremy farmed the land and tended large areas of his woodlands. He was an upright man of considerable bearing, dark haired and charming to a fault. As time went by the land held by Jeremy decreased as properties and bits of land were sold off. Jeremy's son took over the running of the farm and things went downhill fairly rapidly. The son seemed to prefer spending most of his time playing computer games and spent little time looking after the farm and its stock. All sorts of initiatives were embarked upon, including renovation of the old stables and installation of new horsey facilities in an attempt to create a livery business and, no doubt, make some money. Of course, these things need work and attention, they don’t happen by themselves or overnight. A lesson which son seemed not to have learned. To cut a long story short things went into terminal decline resulting in the sale of most of the property and Jeremy and his wife moving out into a bungalow in a local village and son and his wife departing for London, no doubt, in pursuit of fortune elsewhere. 

But during happier days I got to know Jeremy quite well as he was a keen shooting man and I took up an offer from his game keeper to join the beating team. The land which formed the shoot was very beautiful as it was composed of old woodlands and deep coombes. It provided very high and difficult birds. In the early days I referred to Jeremy as Mr. Brown but after a couple of weeks he decided I was ok and could, therefore, call him Jeremy. What it is to be one of the boys !!! In any event I enjoyed the shoot greatly, Harrold the keeper, part time, did a good job and the shoot was well run and friendly. Harold was also Jeremy’s neighbour having bought one of the farms cottages. 

Soon after I joined the beating team I got a new lurcher puppy, Toby, and a year later Toby joined me on beating days. It was Jeremy's custom to pay the beaters himself rather than the usual situation where the keeper does the job of handing out the pay. It was also the case that people with a dog got an extra pound. This again was paid in person by Jeremy and each dog handler was handed the pound coin, cash in hand, and not in the usual little brown envelope used for the rest of the beaters pay. On the first occasion I took Toby with me and when Jeremy came to pay me he looked at Toby and asked "Larcher isn’t it ?". People like Jeremy have their own form of the language you understand, for example, a bird is a bard and yes is ya, and that is why the locals in these parts refer to such people as ya ya’s. Anyway, having confirmed that Toby was indeed a Lurcher, Jeremy nodded looked deeply at him and then said, "not claiming a dog are you". What this meant, was of course, not claiming an extra pound. I was very tempted to tell Jeremy that clearly his need was greater than mine but decided upon discretion! So it was that this ritual continued for the best part of that particular season and each time I affirmed that I was not claiming a dog I was told by Jeremy that I was "a good chap"! This little charade at the end of the day appeared to annoy my neighbour and fellow beater much more than it did me. He would come out with the most ungentlemanly comments regarding this matter and in terms that I couldn’t possibly repeat here !! When, towards the end of the season, and Toby had completed a particularly good day, having flushed large numbers of pheasants my neighbour approached me and said "you tell the tight old sod that you are claiming a dog today". As usual Jeremy arrived to pay us and as usual I was addressed with, "not claiming a dog are you?" I replied that actually I was since Toby had worked every bit as well as any of the other dogs present. I received a wry smile and was handed my pound coin. Thereafter I was never asked again and the extra pound was always forthcoming without comment. Happy days. 

On another occasion at the end of the morning session I was approached by Jeremy and the conversation went something like this, "Ah, Derek, did you lose the Larcher on the second drive"? He smiled and looked at me for a response before continuing, "chased a deer you know, right through the line, grabbed it at the bottom fence." Fortunately it got over the fence. Oh God, there are sometimes when you wish the ground will swallow you up. I apologised claiming to have missed Toby’s departure and believed him to have been in pursuit of a rabbit. I was treated to another one of Jeremy's grins and the reply, "Oh well, one of those things, nasty business." The matter was never mentioned again and neither was it repeated. By the next season Toby would stop on command even if he was tempted to think about chasing a deer. 

When we moved from that village to our present home we did so in order to buy some land, soon after our relocation I heard that Jeremy was selling of parcels of land. Not long after that I heard of his departure from the village. Great days, good memories but, as they say, nothing stays the same for ever. 

The new puppy

Following on from last month and the loss of my youngest Lurcher I now have the new puppy. Bought from a chap in Yorkshire, once again I seem to have broken most of the puppy buying rules and got away with it. I found my puppy on the internet which, of course, meant I had no knowledge of the breeder and no one to ask. The best I could do was to phone him and have a fairly probing conversation in order to try and establish if he was ok. I concluded that the chap was indeed genuine and he clearly knew his stuff regarding lurchers in general. He told me he had his breed lines back through a number of generations and that he had only ever used Greyhounds, Border Collies and Bearded Collies in his breeding mix. I asked for some photos of the male puppies which, through the marvels of the internet, arrived in a few minutes. The litter consisted of eleven puppies of which seven were dogs. I chose a blue grey dog and arranged a collection date for a fortnight ahead. In the meantime my grandson Tom saw the pictures and with the willing help of his mother persuaded his dad to allow him to have his first dog. So now we were going to collect two puppies. Tom’s choice was a very fluffy black and white dog puppy which looked very much like a Border Collie. 

There is always an excitement about getting a new puppy and this one was no exception, the anticipation was intense and the days seemed to drag.Never have two weeks seemed so long. Because of the distance involved we had decided to drive up on the afternoon before collection and drive back the following day with the puppies. During the two weeks prior to collection I was in regular touch with the breeder, not least,to reassure him that I was not a time waster as he had encountered a number of such people already. Jimmy, the breeder kept me up to date and sent a number of photos of the puppies and both parents . 

So the big day came and off we went early on a Wednesday afternoon.M5… M42 and M1. Mid-week, I assumed, would ensure a fairly reasonable journey, how wrong I was. Upon reaching Birmingham we started to encounter large amounts of traffic and basically things went down- hill from there. Road works and fifty mile an hour speed restrictions for miles, where actually there was little evidence of work of any kind taking place just endless miles of traffic cones. To cut a long story short we eventually reached our hotel much later than anticipated and quickly went to ground in a very nice local pub to take on board urgently needed restorative supplies. 

Next morning we arrived at Jimmies place and found an amazing litter of extremely well cared for puppies. Mum, having reared eleven whelps, looked in fine fettle and was an absolute delight. A very shaggy Lurcher she had, as do most Lurchers, a very pleasant disposition. Absolutely delighted with our puppies we loaded them up in the car only to be joined by a number of Jimmies neighbours,in the road, to wish them farewell. It seemed that the litter had become something of local celebrities and the focal point of much interest. 

Our journey back, save for the wretched road works, was much better and hassle free. We arrived home mid-afternoon.

Bertie, for we have named him after our much loved original Bertie, has settled into life with us and, more importantly, with our old lurcher and two aging terriers. Having had his first course of injections and been declared an excellent puppy by the Vet he responds to his name and is becoming good at coming when called. All we need now is to get him to do his little tiddles outside …great joy!

I am confident Bertie will turn out to be just what I wanted and go a long way towards filling the void left by Bertie number one. 

Lurchers

The last week has not been a good one, I had to have my youngest lurcher put down. The hardest thing any dog owner has to do. Over the years I have had many lurchers, quite simply, I love them. Known as a dog favoured by gipsies for poaching, the lurcher is a superb hunting dog. It has speed and intelligence, it is gentle and, unlike some of the highly bred breeds, it benefits from mongrel vigour. 

A long time ago when I was on a Prison Service dog handling course the instructor told us, "an incredible amount of communication passes up and down the lead between dog and handler". At the time I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant but I know now. Having spent many a dark and windy evening lamping for rabbits with lurchers it is impossible not to understand what that instructor was saying. Lamping involves working in the dark with a powerful lamp, shining it upon feeding rabbits and sending the dog to catch them. The darkness ensures that the rabbits have moved away from the safety of the hedgerows and are feeding well into the expanses of the fields. Modern lamps are powerful, some claim to be as powerful as the landing lights of a jumbo jet. In any event they are strong and with a narrow beam. The idea being the lamp illuminates the rabbit in a tight beam, which upon release,the lurcher runs down to catch the fleeing bunny. Anyone who has done a bit of lamping will know the thrill,when in the dark, the dog tenses and the lead goes tight. If nothing else, such an experience demonstrates just how inadequate our own senses are compared with those of a dog. Many a time I have shined the light in the direction the dog was indicating only to see nothing. But always, without fail, there was a rabbit crouched in the grass out of sight of the human eye and most definitely well beyond our range of smell and hearing. Another lesson I learned many years ago, in such situations, the dog is always right. The type of lead I use for lamping is little more than a six or eight inch loop. This slips over the wrist allowing the hand access to a small lever which is a quick release mechanism in order to let the dog go as soon as it has "locked on" to its quarry. Such a lead also allows every move the dog makes to be felt by its owner, hence, information being passed, in the dark, up the lead. 

So, there you have it, a short example of why I have kept lurchers and continue to do so. The definition of a lurcher is generally accepted as being a working dog crossed with a running dog. In the larger strains the combinations used are usually greyhound, for speed, collie for brain and, often something like a deerhound for coat. In the smaller type lurcher whippets are used. The lurcher I have just lost was a combination of greyhound, deerhound and bearded collie.

But to start at the beginning, just over four years ago Toby, my oldest lurcher, went off his legs and could no longer walk. He was eighteen, a very good age for any dog, he had been a delight, a devoted and able partner in both the home and the field. It is a reality of dog owning that, sooner or later, the owner will be faced with the awful decision of having the dog put to sleep. Make no mistake about it, even with an old dog which has had a long and healthy life, that decision is ghastly. So, having lost Toby I decided to get another lurcher. It didn’t take long to locate a litter of puppies just outside of Romsey in Hampshire. The puppies were just a week old, and such was the demand for them that the owner said if I wanted one I would have to go and choose it and pay a deposit. Normally this process would take place when the puppies are older, have their eyes open and, are at the very least, running about. So it was that I found myself at a very posh farmhouse viewing a large litter of tiny lurcher pups. I wanted a dog puppy and made my choice accordingly, the one I chose had two white tips to his toes on his back feet. I handed over fifty quid and departed thinking I must be mad, having broken pretty much every rule in the puppy buying handbook. Over the next few weeks I returned several times to observe the pups progress, I was particularly keen to have a broken coated dog and, as with a number of other desirables, I had to take a chance on my choice turning out to be as I hoped. Finally the day of collection came and she who must be obeyed and I set off to get Bertie. Mrs. Y. had decided upon the name and, since she had been so decent about me getting ….. "another dog" I willingly agreed. 

Sometimes things turn out well and so it was with Bertie, he was broken coated and he was absolutely everything I could have wished for in a dog. As sweet a temperament as you could imagine, clever, crafty and every bit a lurcher. He would thieve for England. He readily took to training and was a very quick learner, in fact, it soon became clear to me that this dog more than supported the breeders claims of fine blood and lurcher breeding. I took him beating and he astonished me by taking off and bringing back, to hand,a wounded pheasant, unharmed by the dog, and all on his first trip out. This was not a one off either, throughout his short life he continued to retrieve wounded birds and willingly surrender them to me. It was just in him, I certainly had not taught him to do these things. Bertie was a dream come true, I loved him to bits. 

In July I noticed he was not himself, he spent a lot of time curled up under a bush in the garden. This was not usual, for the most part he spent his time shadowing me, alert and ready for anything. I took him to the vet and then began an agonising period of vetinary visits with no real answers. Steroids were prescribed, ear, nose and throat examinations took place as did Xrays, blood tests and skin scrapes. Several theories were discussed and one by one abandoned. In short the vet’s had no diagnosis. For a while the steroids helped and Bertie had odd days of normality but the overall trend was down hill. The final day he couldn’t come beating with me and he stayed at home, upon my return he was in an awful state. In a few short hours his balance had gone and he was unable to walk properly. The vet came out and, I suppose, confirmed what I already knew. There was no hope. The theory being a brain tumour. Bertie went with the vet God bless him. Bertie was just four years old. 

A week on Wednesday I travel to Yorkshire to collect my new lurcher puppy, well actually, two as my grandson is also having one. Of similar breeding the new puppy will also be Bertie and, I have no doubt, will make an old man very happy and fill a terrible gap.