Fergus came to live with us when he was one and a half years old. He had been well taken care of by his original owner, but she fell ill and needed to return him to the breeder. I was thrilled when the breeder informed me that she had a “toddler” terrier who was “perfectly trained” and jumped at the opportunity to bring Fergus home.
Fergus is a typical terrier: he lives to bark at squirrels and mail carriers, thinks he owns the couch, and is capable of jumping to extreme heights when no one is around to retrieve a tin of cookies. He hates being left alone (sorry, I have to go to work), is gentle with children, and does crazy dive bombing onto freshly mowed grass, doing a perfect imitation of a ballplayer sliding into base. He has perfected the “Who, me?” look of complete innocence that makes it almost impossible to discipline him, thereby, of course, teaching him that it’s okay to misbehave. He is adored.