Hi, my name is Jack. I am a Jack Russell, or so everyone claims, as this little breed can cover a wide range of colouring and size. I was born in North Yorkshire in the UK. When I was about five to six weeks old I was put in the back of an old white van with five other pups and taken to a pretty farm not far from Harrogate. The farmer was a friend of my owner who said he would sell us pups. We were all supposed to be Jack Russell’s but we sure looked different, except for two, who were all black. There was a white typical “Master´s voice” one with longer legs than mine. He claimed to be our “Top Dog” and ruled the van pack. Big deal! Or so he thought.
It was shortly before Christmas on a dull overcast morning when the friendly farmer opened our van door and there stood – it looked like to me – three generations, a grandmother, a mother and son called Alex, who appeared to be nine years of age. As I lay quivering in the corner, Top Dog danced about showing off. He was the apparent farmer´s choice. The Grandmother, with a keen eye for perfection, scanned each of us over thoroughly and can you believe it, picked up poor little quivering me into her arms.
Turning to her daughter she said, “I like this one, look his colouring is perfectly matched”.
“Well it’s a … wee cow’rin tim’rous bestie, but kind’a cute”, she replied (she’s married to a Scot).
“Not necessarily a fault”, Grandmother responded adding, “Well, what do you think Alex, will this be our Jack?” while transferring me into the boy’s arms.
Grandmother paid the farmer while Top Dog yapped in disappointed rejection.
I lucked out – big time – as this tale, somewhat cropped, will reveal.
Jack's Tale – Chapter 2
Harrogate, North Yorkshire