Living with a puppy is like travelling on a train with a driver on his fourth can of Red Bull.
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Living with a Jack Russell puppy is like riding the same train with a driver on his fourth bag of crystal methamphetamines.
Google Jack Russell terrier and you get this temperament definition: Intelligent, clownish, athletic, stubborn, energetic, fearless and vocal.
Desmond the devil dancer is all these things plus one more: he’s stark raving bonkers.
Let Dezzy off the lead, and he explodes out of your hand like a champion greyhound with his nose hoovering the ground as he picks up his first scent trail.
His nose leads him on a frantic chase to find that other dog or that wallaby or that fox or that rabbit or that human that must be still running out here somewhere.
Occasionally, he stops to sniff a tall, particularly pungent blade of grass.
Then he’s off again in a mad zigzag across paddocks of tussock and bottlebrush grass, clearing logs and fallen branches with the burst of an Olympic long-jumper.
Only the tip of his white tail reveals his location.
Suddenly, he’s half-a-kilometre away, and you have to yell to get him back.
I find “TREAT!” works better than his name, but only if he’s listening.
If the scent trail is just too powerful, you’ve got no chance, and you have to wait until he realises he’s on his own.
Then his head pops up out of the grass, he lifts a paw, sniffs the air and hightails it back to you.
Jack Russells are the creation of a persistent dog designer from Devon, England called the Rev John Russell, who wanted a fearless lunatic fit enough to keep up with the big boys when out hunting on horseback and small enough to go down foxholes and persuade the inhabitant the game is up so he might as well come out nicely.
Unlike Labradors, collies and heelers, Jack Russells don’t depend on handler commands to do their job.
They’re bred to think for themselves and outfox a fox.
This can be cute when they work out how to open a sock drawer, but it’s a problem when it comes to teaching useful commands like ‘stay’ or ‘drop’ — especially when confronting snakes, or sampling tasty morsels like dead frogs, putrefying mice or a pile of fresh pooh.
Apparently, the trick is to make yourself the most interesting thing in the world.
I reckon I’m more entertaining than a dead frog.
Not sure about the pooh, though.
The thing about a JRT, as we owners like to call them, is that they demand attention.
If I’m reading a book, Dez will launch himself on to my lap with a filthy wad of chewed string in his mouth that was once a colourful little blue rope dinosaur.
Then he fixes me with a penetrating stare that says: “For God’s sake, put that papery thing down and do something useful.”
“Throw this so I can chase it!”
Equally, if I’m typing, he’ll chew my shoe.
If I ignore him, he’ll drop his dinosaur at my feet and wander off to a spot in the centre of the room and stare at me until I feel his eyes like accusatory lasers burning holes in the back of my head.
Eventually, I give up and throw his dinosaur across the room.
I’ve got into trouble a couple of times when the chief gardener walked into the line of fire.
He's also ridiculously happy — all the time.
His rear end muscles must be Schwarzenegger-size because his tail is set to permanent wag mode from the moment he wakes at 6am.
When his breakfast appears, he performs a triple pirouette of hysteria.
He occasionally falls over backwards with no hint of embarrassment.
If I pretend to eat it with loud scoffing sounds, he yells like an outraged toddler who’s had his ice-cream snatched away.
Now, you might ask, why would anyone want to live with a JRT puppy?
All I can say is that as you approach your 70s, you have two choices.
You can climb aboard the slow train and await the tunnel of death.
Or you can live the wild life vicariously aboard the fast train.
Just don’t try the triple pirouette with the window open.
John Lewis is a former journalist at The News.
Columnist