I had a rat terrier growing up. Great dog.
Was fearless of anything bigger than he was.
Was scared of anything smaller-go figure.
He lived to be 19 years old.
When we got him as a little pup, my sister wanted to name him “Phineas”. But my mother said, he’s lucky to be here, so he was named “Lucky”.
My father bought a 50 pound bag of Gravy Train. The dog took one whiff and walked away.
So my mother said, “Ok, you’ll eat what we eat and like it!”
And he did.Worked for him to live to such a ripe old age.
He loved the bones from the corner butcher with the marrow still in them. He would chew that for hours.
Was smart as a whip—I swear he could understand English.
Then again, he was a Manchester rat terrier.
They are amazing. Wish I could have met him. Amy puts up a good front for a larger dog, loves to run up and down the fence barking and growling with the pitt next door, but she likes those her own size. Once I move I plan on getting her a friend. She really doesn’t like to be alone.