By Seán C. Malone and John Sweetman
Seán and I have always had dogs of one kind or another in our lives, and we have a lot of “dog” stories to relate. Getting older, it would appear that we have “downsized” a bit, as we now both have members of the Terrier clan.
Seán’s little dog, “Duffy,” is a Jack Russell “rough coat,” while my wife and I have a Cairn. When Seán first got Duffy as a small pup, we had two Cairns, Robby the older one and Liam, a pup the same young age as Duffy. In theory, terriers are “ratters,” but only Duffy seems to have been serious about his genetic “ratting” heritage.
The older Cairn, Robby, preferred to chase squirrels who would taunt him just out of reach in our birch tree. He then graduated to chasing crows, who would also fearlessly taunt him. Somehow, he got crows confused with jets when the flight paths changed slightly to put them directly overhead, and he would chase them.
The only thing Robby ever caught was a raccoon, late one night. The consequences of that act were unfortunate, but only for me as I was the one who had to drag him out of a blackberry patch while wearing pajamas.
Liam was more into the pursuit of rats than the actual catching. He would dig endless holes in hopes of, well, whatever dogs hope for at the end of the tunnel. Mainly, the only thing he brought back was loads of dirt, debris, and stinky stuff from the compost pile. He ended up with a lot of baths as a pup.
Duffy, on the other hand is a natural ratter! He gets into the tightest corners and will not give up. Of course, Duffy received training in the ratting arts from “Victoria,” Seán’s cat when Duffy first came. She was a master hunter, and at first resented the competition, but came to mostly get along with him. Occasionally, Victoria would discipline the Duff with a swift sharp paw across the nose, which is why when Duffy visits our house, our cats are completely at ease.
Seán has a story about one of his most memorable dogs.
Her name was Pan, after Seán’s Black Panther of Vashon. My income consisted of selling her Black Lab pups, $75.00 for the males and $35.00 for a female. She had nine pups in one of several litters.
We lived one-half mile south of the Cove store on five acres that ran all the way to the beach. Our creek, which we called “No Name Creek,” was a favorite spot for fishing for cutthroat trout and hunting ducks.
One day after school, I unlimbered Mom’s 20-gauge Remington shotgun and Pan and I headed for the beach. By creeping through the brush, we got close to where we heard a flock of Widgeon feeding in the creek.
I jumped up and fired two shots into the flock as they rose from where they were feeding. I dropped six ducks, which Pan began to retrieve from the cold and fast-moving Colvos Passage. One at a time, Pan retrieved the ducks, except for one that continued to swim far from shore. Pan was an extraordinary swimmer and would not give up the chase.
I was afraid that Pan might drown, as she was almost halfway across the mile-wide passage, about 20 feet behind the swimming duck. I tried calling her back, using my Acme Thunderer dog whistle, to no avail. I could barely see her when she finally caught up with and gingerly began to retrieve the duck. I was worried sick that Pan wasn’t going to make it to shore and called to reassure her. She finally walked out of the cold water and retrieved the duck to my extended hand, the way she had been intending to do.
We preferred Mallard ducks to the Widgeon, as the Widgeon tasted fishy if they had been on the sound more than a few days in their migration from the wheat fields of Saskatchewan.
Duffy and I were invited to the Vashon Heritage Museum’s 2025 Spring Gala by the Engles Family, and because one of their guests brought his terrier, I was able to take Duffy into “O” Space on his leash. Every time the audience clapped at a remark by the speaker, Duffy would bark continuously until the clapping stopped. He added his to that of the audience, helping to raise money for our museum.
