The household up the road includes a year-old Jack Russell known as Johnny Rotten. The Jack Russell Terrier considered in the round is in any case 12 lb. odd of sin and impudence with perky ears and a nice little face, but when added unto this is basic fact is a case of pernicious adolescence the result is pretty trying. He is given to roistering, wronging the ancientry – in the persons of the Silly Bitch Club, whom he rags, leaping growling at their ears – and getting wenches with child – to be precise, t’other Jack Russell, Honey, who is now the mother of four additional little problems. I generally walk Miss Dog and Best Friend together, but for various good reasons, not least the puppies, nobody has much time for Johnny during the day before Tayla gets home from school, so I have taken to walking him too, rather than leaving him hysterical with frustration in his pen. This is not restful. He has to be kept on a lead because he is completely uncontrollable, at least by a stranger, and I am absolutely certain he wouldn’t come when he was called, not for anything. This means of course that the little beast proceeds in leaps and bounds, wheezing pop-eyed at the end of his string as he half-strangles himself – I, meanwhile, have to be rather careful of my footing because though he is not heavy the unpredictability with which he hurls his weight in one direction or another is quite destabilising in the present muddy conditions. I regret to say the Silly Bitches are not showing themselves at their most charming; they are being, in fact, bitches – their interminable games of chase have taken on a new quality; they gallop shoulder to shoulder just out of reach, glancing meaningly at poor wheezing Johnny and saying ‘Oooo, we don’t play with boys’, and then they play catch as catch can, racing in figure of eights like a pair of whippets, again arcing in till he’s tempted to chase, which results of course in him running in a circle with me as the pivot while the labradors accellerate into the snowy distance. Then Miss Dog will bounce at him stiff-legged, the universal dog signal for starting a game, and when he hurls himself at her, she whoops off into the distance, while the ballistic Johnny turns a somersault at the end of his lead. I think an unladylike vengeance is being taken for a great deal of earpulling and general tiresomeness. I can only hope that being so insistently reminded that he is Least Significant Dog is proving good for Johnny’s character; it is not a message which your Jack Russell readily absorbs.