Here he is, a proper farmyard and stableyard dog, he simply does what it says on the Jack Russell curriculum vitae tin. He thinks he's as big as a barn and will take on anything.
I turn up to fish and somehow, by some sixth sense, he knows I'm there and he arrives barking and yapping but seems slightly confused by the fact that I don't get back in the car and clear off as quickly as I can in the face of his verbal onslaught.
I gave him a biscuit once and that lulled me into a false sense of security, his paw went up and he couldn't understand why he couldn't have another biscuit. At the farm the rottweiler cross and the hunting poodle are benign and just like to be stroked, patted and scratched. The saluki whippet cross just wants to check out your bags and lean against you and have her ears scratched.
Bastard Barry pulls away, calibrates the range for a quick strike and the moment your back is turned your ankles are his target, your achilles heel you could say. A quick nip and he's off, chortling to himself, and that's why he's called Bastard Barry.
There's nothing like being right at the top of the pecking order. Well, the nipping order in his case.
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