Breed Profiles

The breeder called at 7am. Bad news. The puppy we'd picked, the little black one with the white chest spot, had developed a limp and she wouldn't let him go yet. I was half asleep and crushed, because we'd waited eight months for that litter. She called back three weeks later. Different puppy, same litter, a wheaten this time. We drove up and brought home Angus, and he has run the house ever since.

People see a scottie and think cute little terrier, apartment dog. No. Angus is ten pounds of opinion with a beard. He's convinced he owns the couch, the street, and most of my decisions. Scotties were bred to go down badger holes and face things bigger than them without flinching, and you can see it in how he carries himself. He's not scared of anything, including the vacuum, which he attacks on principle.

The coat is the first thing new owners underestimate. That wiry, handsome look doesn't happen by accident. It needs hand-stripping, where you pull the dead hair out by hand, or the texture goes soft and the dog looks like a different animal. I tried clipping at first because stripping sounded medieval. Big mistake. The coat came back dull and fuzzy. A groomer showed me proper stripping every few months, and between times I brush him weekly. It's a commitment, not a quick bath-and-done. If you want low grooming, this isn't your dog.

Stubborn doesn't cover it. Angus learns a command in about three repetitions and then decides whether today is a teaching day. He has a terrier's independence, which the books politely call selective. I call it negotiation. Recall is a joke off-leash, so he stays on a lead outside. He's brave to a fault, once squared up to a lab three times his size over a dropped sandwich. I respected the confidence. The lab was confused.

Health is where I have to be honest, because scotties have a few real issues. Skin problems show up a lot, those blackheads and bumps along the back that need medicated washes. Angus gets them seasonally and we manage with a special shampoo. Then there's bladder cancer, higher risk in the breed, so I watch his drinking and peeing and we do yearly checks. And the odd one, Scottie cramp, a movement disorder that isn't painful but looks alarming, a kind of arching when they get excited. Angus hasn't shown it, but I know the signs now. None of this scared me off, but nobody should go in blind.

The bark is sharp and sudden, a terrier alarm that means business. He barks at the door, at the post, at the neighbor's cat holding a meeting on our fence. I trained a quiet cue that works about half the time, which is better than nothing. He sleeps curled tight, beard on his paws, and snores softly, the only time he looks harmless.

He's a one-person dog in a lot of ways, loyal to me and polite but distant with strangers. Good watchdog, terrible guard dog, he'd bite a shadow and welcome a burglar. With kids he's tolerant if they don't pull the beard, which, fair. He likes a routine and grumps when it breaks. Food motivates him more than praise, which makes training possible if you keep treats handy.

Finding a good breeder mattered more than I knew. The serious ones test for the breed's problems and talk to you straight about the risks instead of waving them off. We asked hard questions the second time around and liked the answers. A backyard breeder won't, and that's where a lot of heartache starts. I'd rather wait a year for the right litter than rush into a sick puppy.

He eats like a king and inspects every meal like a critic who's been betrayed before. I cook a little plain chicken in with his kibble on Sundays and he sits by the stove watching the pan, silent, judging. The first time he tried a blueberry he spat it out and gave me a look I'm still apologizing for. Small dog, specific tastes.

We took him to the coast once and he hated the sand, hated the waves, stood at the line where the wet meets the dry and refused to cross, as if the ocean was a badger hole he'd decided wasn't worth the trouble. That's Angus in one picture. Brave about the wrong things, cautious about the sea. He'd rather argue with the vacuum at home, where he knows he can win.

Friends with big dogs don't get him at first. They expect a yappy lap toy and meet a ten-pound general instead. He's won over most of them by now, usually by ignoring them until they earn it. The ones who try to baby him get the cold shoulder and a beard pointed away. Earn the scottie and he's yours, sort of.

Would I get another scottie? Probably, though I'd go in older and wiser about the grooming and the health screening. Angus is a character, the kind of dog people remember. But he is not easy, not soft, not a beginner's pet. He's small, dark, and absolutely sure he's in charge. Some days I let him think it.