Photo:  Pam White

This is Liam, the Jack Russell.  I have a complicated relationship with him.  This morning when I was letting the dogs out, Liam, who sleeps with us, charged the front door where our feral cat, Mamacita, was patiently waiting to be fed.  I heard his teeth hit the glass.  Hackles up, growling. This is the part I don’t like.  I don’t like the constant barking, the grabbing at our gentle greyhound Jules’s mouth when they go out.

We have tried the Cesar Milan “sshhht” sound, clicker training, the water squirter.  Nothing works.  He will sit but the moment our attention leaves, he is back into his jack mania.

For years Pam wanted a Jack Russell.  Our vet at the time said she would not treat him if we got one.  One day we were traveling on the ferry back to Martha’s Vineyard with our three greyhounds.  Up on deck we met a man whose Jack Russell had just died after seventeen years.  “You must be devastated,” we commiserated.  “Oh, it’s ok, he said, “it was actually a relief.”  He told us how every day for seventeen years, the dog had barked and jumped and attacked everything in sight.  I was sure this would put the Jack Russell issue to bed at last.

Then one day we went to a barn to visit my horse Goliath who now belonged to a friend.  In one of the stalls were four tiny Jack Russell puppies, just brought back from Ireland by the stable manager.  Our daughters raced in and five minutes later, Chandrika, the youngest, came out cradling a puppy.  “This is my baby sister who died,” she said.  Adopted from Nepal, she in fact did have a baby sister who had died.  At that moment, my heart sank and Pam, I am sure, did a mental fist pump.  Of course we bought the puppy, and named him Liam.

As I said, my feelings are complicated.  There is also  tame, sweet Liam who dives under the covers to snuggle behind my knees at night. There is creative muse Liam who sits on the floor at my feet when I write.  There is the Liam who has an interesting, obsessive relationship with our cat Tallulah.

It is not really that complicated.  I don’t love (some of) what he does.  Do I love him?  You betcha.