How we came to own a dog bred by Cajuns to hunt boar

Hi.

I’m finally gonna write a blog. My new friend Lucy said I should, and she’s been pretty successful, so I’ll give in a whirl.

About me—I’m a middle-aged female with a husband, a dog, and two boys. I’m way overeducated: the PhD in Organic Chemistry hangs over my sewing machine. Now I start companies. Great flexibility, lousy pay.

Five years ago our older son, Thing 1, had been begging for a dog for two years, and we decided that the time was right. Our cat, Ellie, was clearly settling in to Old Age, and we rarely saw her between naps. Our younger son, Thing 2, was old enough to understand how to treat a dog. Hubby and I decided that we wanted a dog whose life span matched Thing 1’s remaining time at home—10 to 11 years: I would NOT have a dog when then nest is empty.

I wanted a small dog. I have great memories of my family’s dog Derby, who was a black and white mix of rat terrier and Chihuahua. Back then such a dog was a mutt, but now that many dog breeds have become so inbred that genetic defects are commonly expressed, the breeders have created a new market niche: the doggy “hybrid”. Cockapoos, labradoodles, and yes, I even found rat terrier/Chihuahua hybrids for sale. I really wanted a twenty pound dog. Hubby wanted a manly dog, one who would tip the scales at a hefty 50+ pounds. The problem is that dogs’ life spans are inversely proportional to their weights. Must be some natural law of “conservation of lifetime supply of dog food” at work. A Chihuahua can persist for upwards of twenty years, but if you get a Great Dane, it will be an old dog at seven.

I started looking. I received a tip that a reputable rat terrier breeder lives 45 minutes from here. I spoke with her about finding an adult dog. She was willing to part with her recently-retired-from-breeding (and spayed!) matriarch, Jill, 12 years. And she would throw in Jill’s daughter, Joy, who although only 9 had also recently retired. We went to visit. During the visit we learned that Jill had been retired because she had developed a breast tumor, a common problem in dogs who spend all their lives pregnant or lactating. The dog had been treated, and was likely to live another 5-8 years. “Great!”, I thought in secret, “A dog with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel!” I was thrilled with the find. But Jill had run of a farm, and lived with 15 other dogs. Moving to the burbs to become a family pet would have been a demotion. We declined.

It dawned on me that breeders deal in puppies exclusively, and that I would rather have another human baby than get up during the night to housebreak a puppy. I started surfing petfinder.com to look for a gently used adult dog. I went to visit a “terrier” who turned out to be a sixty pound pit bull. Pass.

Then I saw Smidgin, a Whippet/Catahoula mix purported to be 11 months old and twenty-five pounds. She was a blue leopard girl with bright blue eyes. The Catahoula is a rare breed not recognized by AKC; it’s the state dog of Louisiana, and most breeders assert “Save the Catahoula. Don’t Let AKC ruin the breed.” I liked the defiance. I liked the anti-establishment view. I had lived in Louisiana for a year after college, and had met several of the dogs. They are very smart, very loyal, very large. A typical Catahoula is 45-105 pounds. They are working dogs, bred to herd and to hunt wild boar, yet many are used as family pets on the Bayou. I knew that Catahoulas become protective of their people, and that sometimes they can bond with one family member and become protective of that person, even turning on other family members. Not a dog for a house with small children and many visitors…. But I decided to read about Whippets. Loyal, Fast, Smart, Gentle, Imminently Trainable…a greyhound in miniature. Now, when you read about on a dog breed, keep in mind that it was written by someone who really likes that breed. I have three friends who are vets, and I keep urging them to write a book called “The Down Side of Each Breed.” Golden retrievers are stinky and shed a lot, for instance. Labs have such bad hips that they walk like Frankenstein by their sixth or seventh birthdays.

But Smidgin was the right size—small enough for me and big enough for Hubby. She was GORGEOUS. Catahoulas have a lifespan of 10-11 years, so the dog would probably last 9-10 more, a perfect fit for our timeline. The rescue lady said the dog was active, loving, and that she was appropriate for first-time dog owners (She was wrong on several fronts. But more on that later).

We applied. We were accepted. We met Smidgin in a parking lot on Easter Sunday. She looked a tad bigger than 25 pounds. I asked the rescue lady, who flipped through the vet paperwork and said she was 27 pounds the previous Wednesday when she was spayed. Obviously that weight was after some parts were removed! But the dog was sweet and submissive and Thing 1 was hooked. We took the dog home and renamed her Vivienne, a French name to reflect her Cajun heritage and the fact that she was very lucky to be alive. Vivie also came with a very cool tattoo—a female symbol on her inner left thigh.

Perhaps we should have known that the “Save Them All Animal Rescue” was not likely to be selective. Perhaps we should have known that a dog bred by Cajuns to hunt wild boar might have to struggle with the duties of a suburban pet confined to a house and half-acre lot. But we didn’t know these things. And it’s a good thing we didn’t, because we adopted a damn good dog.