Today, our oldest dog died. When I got her, I was living in Texas, so she’s been with me through multiple moves and we’d been together for two years before I even met my husband, let alone married him.
Kate came to me as a rescue of sorts. I called around to breeders looking for an Irish Terrier and ran across a wonderful man who told me he knew of one of his own dogs, bred for show with a show name and everything—Gloccomara Bad Magic Baby—who needed a new home. She’d been bought by a man who planned to show her, but he’d become ill and passed her along to a whole bunch of different relatives, but eventually decided she needed to find a new permanent home.
When she came to me, she was 2.5 years old and ten pounds overweight which, for a dog who’s only supposed to weigh about 25-30 pounds, is rather a lot. And, boy, was she stubborn. She wanted to be the boss and it took me well over a year to convince her that I was. She hadn’t even been taught to sit, and when I was teaching her, she would sit with her rear about an inch off the ground, just to show me that she knew what I wanted and wasn’t planning on complying.
She ruled the house from the moment she came into it. I had another Irish Terrier rescue, Buster, and she bossed him around mercilessly. Which was okay because if she was alpha, he was definitely omega. She
was both leash aggressive and dominant, so she had to be free when she met other dogs, but she never objected to them coming into the house. Indeed, she helped me round up strays.
And she was very maternal. She loved puppies. The local dog trainer when I lived in Texas would have her in to socialize puppy groups because she would put everyone in their place. When we moved to Boston, and then to New York, she continued her socialization efforts. First
there were our own puppies. Oscar, the Wheaten. Conan, who came home with my husband from Ireland. And eventually Philomena, who wanted to take over (because Irish Terrier females are always alpha) only to find position of “Queen Bitch” was already filled.
And also at the groomer where the owner would put Kate into the same crate as her own puppy, Mauser the Giant Schnauzer, who was twice her size even at only a few months old, but responded instinctively to her “mom in charge” manner.
This year, she was fifteen. She was mostly blind, mostly deaf and had a bit of dementia. But she was still the boss. Even yesterday, when Philomena got in her face, Kate forced her to back down.
So raise a glass of Guiness or your favorite Irish Whiskey to Gloccomara Bad Magic Baby, also known as Kate. She’s in doggie heaven, bossing around all the lesser dogs.