A Kerry "Boxer" -- sort of

By Sharon Block

When our family was "dog-ready," some relatives gave us a kerry blue puppy, Heather of the Hill Country (though Heather also answered to "Stupid" or "Worthless" when called for in such a manner by my father, who grew up without dogs and could never quite admit how much a dog adds to one's life. Lest you be horrified, this is a man who had to change the way he came into the house after Heather died, he missed her so much. Besides, he referred to his human children in the same terms).

Since no one ever told us or told Heather she was supposed to be aggressive and a handful, she never was. She did reveal her kerry nature, though, in her sense of humor and her protectiveness of the family. On walks in her youth, Heather would circle the pack, galloping around us at full speed. One time, as we were walking down to a local river along a tree-and-boulder-lined path, and Heather had galloped ahead to ensure a safe passage, my mother whispered, "Let's hide!" We zipped behind a large boulder and waited. In a few moments, Heather came galumphing back, ears up, head up, bouncing through the grass, clearly surprised at our disappearance. She found us within seconds, though, and as we laughed at her and admitted our guilt, there is no question she was laughing at herself too (in a tolerant, humor-the-humans sort of way).

Non-family members, however, were not allowed to laugh at her; while hiking in Maine on one family vacation, Heather had to be carried up a series of iron ladders. She was mortified, and was unable to meet our eyes for at least two minutes after what she clearly considered a failure on her part. After being lifted up one ladder, Heather shook herself and bounded ahead as usual, only to realize -- gasp! that a family of strangers had witnessed her having to be carried. It was a dreadful moment for her. Her tail dropped, her ears dropped, her lolling tongue was withdrawn, she literally wilted -- for about a second. Then, her pride stung, Heather (who never barked on hiking trails, having more important things to do related to guarding the flock than worrying about outsiders) commenced a noble fit of barking. The other family only laughed harder at such a transparent display, and poor Heather quickly rounded us up and led us away from the terrible scene.

But as Heather got older, guarding the flock became more difficult. Increasingly deaf and blind, she found predators harder to identify. But glory is still to be had, among the old. One day, several of us were jogging around the local track -- a good way to get outside with a sensory-deprived dog, as 1) someone was always close enough to be within sight and hearing distance, and 2) she could cheat and cut across the center of the field. But on this day, as the flock moved in orderly fashion along the track, the eyes of our protector noticed a large, threatening, perhaps even deadly object looming up at about 30 feet away. The head went down. The tail straightened out. The eyes were glued back against the head. The body lowered, chest skimming the ground. Slowly at first, but with steadily accelerating speed and power, Heather of the Hill Country, the blood of Irish chieftains coursing through her veins, a blood-curdling growl coming from deep within her mighty chest, lips drawn back from lethal teeth, launched herself fearlessly and nobly at ----- a large cardboard box.

It's a fortunate thing that she won. I cannot imagine the blow to her ego if the box hadn't fallen apart on contact.

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