Archie at Fifteen

Fifteen years ago, Sue and I were reeling from the loss of Louie’s younger brother Floyd. The pain of his loss was extreme both because we loved him and because it had been preventable. Floyd was a wonderful little dog and remarkably close to his big brother Lou. It stings to this day, right now in fact as I think back on it. Louie had softened measurably since we’d brought Floyd home. Fearing a return to his earlier ways we began in earnest to look for a similarly sized companion dog to fill the terrible void left by Floyd’s loss. Our search eventually brought us to a farmhouse in Exeter, RI where a litter of Jack Russell Terriers were up for adoption. Only one was left, a chubby little white and brown fellow that had escaped attention while his litter mates had found homes. Even in the big workman’s hands of Eugene, the breeder, it was apparent that Archie was, like Lou before him, big for his breed. “He’s a fat little guy.” said his son Eugene Jr. We were smitten, Lou was somewhat indifferent, perhaps understanding on some level what we were up to and perhaps not altogether approving of it.

We had just moved into the house we’d purchased in Warwick. Situated near City Park, we were looking forward to walks in the woods with Louie and Floyd. Those days would not come as we’d imagined but with this helpless pup who for weeks I could not help but call “Chet” for my friends Jon and Maria’s JRT who I saw when I looked down at him. His name came to us after quite a lot of brainstorming. The comic strip "Andy Capp" came to mind, the little British guy with his newsboy cap and a ciggy hanging off his lip, but he didn’t strike us as an “Andy” for some reason, so I began to think of other comic strip characters, there had to be a gem there somewhere. “Jughead” came up and was quickly dispensed with but of course you can't consider “Jughead” without some thought of “Archie”. We looked at each other, Sue and I. We knew we’d hit upon it. He was Archie and that’s all there was to it. Over the years, he's picked up the nicknames, "Bear" and "Scrapper", depending on the mood.

It wouldn’t take long to realize what we’d gotten ourselves into. Though we hadn’t been influenced by Jack Russell Terriers in the media, eg. Skip, Wishbone, Eddie etc. we had not done our homework. Chet was the only real point of reference. Chet was funny, smart, enormously entertaining and friendly as can be. He’d clearly seeped into my consciousness. Archie was different though. Not as bouncy, there was a nervous quality to him. He’d been born in the summer and while the impact of thunder, lightning and fireworks are well known to me now I understood next to nothing about early canine development at that point. Nutricalm for dogs and later Thundershirts were both heaven sent but there would be years of intense panic whenever those terrifying sounds were present. An early encounter, in hindsight, during a fear impact period, with an off leash dog triggered a panicked race around my leg. On a leash he’d unwittingly tangled himself around my leg, aggravating the situation. I tore into the dog's owner, “Is that a leash in your hand?”, “Uhhh,...yes”, “Then maybe you should put it on your goddamn dog huh?” He leashed his dog, a goofy, harmless Golden Retriever but the damage was done, Archie was never completely at ease around other dogs from that point forward. Archie was a handful in ways we'd never encountered with Louie or Floyd. A preference for TV remotes, sneakers and wallets would develop. I wasn’t a trainer then, but between Floyd’s loss and our new bundle of joy I had all the reasons I would ever need to get some help. First, and with no sense whatsoever of the impact it would have on my life, I worked with my friend and fellow trainer Ron (who’d also introduced me to Sue. Do you think I might owe him one or two?) Archie and Lou would be the first two dogs I’d ever train. I was a traditional trainer in those days. Choke chains, pinch and e-collars were in my toolbox and regrettably on my dogs. Miles is the beneficiary of the mistakes I made working with Louie, Archie and later Reno. They were an integral part of my learning process. I think (hope) they’ve forgiven my shortcomings. I’ve tried to make it up to them.

I love Archie intensely. He’s been a gigantic pain in the butt throughout his life but I think I’m finally old enough to appreciate how much I’ve learned because of who he is. There was never a conscious decision on Archie’s part to engage in some twisted, life long, altruistic endeavor to shape me into an empathetic dog trainer. “Archie you asshole.” was likely the first use of an obscenity my son Keir ever heard. No dog’s made me angrier, more frustrated and no dog, not even Reno, has given me more to think about when it comes to the bifurcated  approach of behavior modification coupled with management. I’ll come clean. Archie is the reason that while I love dogs in general, I’m a big fan of terriers. Man do I love that defiant quality. That, “Who’s gonna make me?” bravado that seems imbued in so many of them.I can remember not caring for them much as a kid, terriers seemed,...grouchy but Archie and other dogs like him have grown on me in no small way. The attitude is infectious and rarely fails to make me smile. Over the years I've tried to relate that to every client with a Cairn, Scottie, Westie, etc. Oh, and Jack Russells of course. You've got to love them if you're ever going to put up with them.


Fifteen years ago I was a different person. Less wise, less fat, less grey and by no means a dog trainer. I wasn’t a father yet either. Keir’s entry on the scene brought to light one of Archie’s most endearing qualities, his lifelong fondness for Keir. At his most frustrating, I was always impressed with Archie's intelligence, taking to anything I spent the time to teach him. At his physical peak he was something to behold, a natural athlete, but when it all shakes out, it was his obvious and enduring affection for Keir both Sue and I appreciate the most. Tomorrow Archie turns fifteen years old. His hearing has started to fade as has his eyesight. He’s not the marvelous physical specimen he once was. What he remains in spite of these losses is content and that sustains me as I wrestle with being Dad to two geriatric dogs (Louie will be seventeen in October). Always assessing their quality of life, asking the question, “Are they still happy?” As I type this, Archie is asleep, stretching from time to time on the rug by my feet. He is happy, and I am too. Thank you brother, and happy birthday.