Archibald Calvin Hamish MacBeth (aka Archie) is too smart. He is a three and a half year old Lakeland Terrier (think Airedale and shrink to the size of a breadbox), that we got six months after the death of our perfect Lakeland Murphy — who was named for Murphy Brown on the grounds that terriers are feisty. Murphy wasn't. In fact, she was a bit of a wimp, but the loveliest, cuddliest dog whom we adored. We'd wanted a smart dog (terriers are known for their brains) but she wasn't the sharpest tack in the box — we sometimes thought maybe she wasn't really a terrier despite her American Kennel Club papers. Little did we know how nice it was to not have the smartest dog on the block.
When we got Archie, we little knew what we were getting into. He was a year old and we took him because it is so difficult to get Lakeland Terriers (there are only about 25 breeders in the country). We learned almost instantly that Archie was no Murphy. He was male, for one thing, a difference we hadn't even considered (nor did we have the choice if we didn't want to wait a couple of years to get another Lakeland.) And he was the sharpest tack in the box. He was so sharp we were constantly getting pricked. For one thing, he talks. Not by barking, mind you. He talks telepathically. Here's one way. Archie likes to play (Murphy didn't). Archie likes to destroy toys — rapidly. But more than anything, he likes to chase a tennis ball. When he wants to play (all-too-often) he will race over and throw a toy at our feet. But if we throw it, he doesn't chase it but rushes over the counter where he knows the tennis balls are kept and perches expectantly — face turned back at me. "No, Archie, I'm not going to throw a tennis ball." He then gazes longingly up at tennis ball counter. "I want a tennis ball — not that toy!" "No! Bring me your toy and I'll throw it." His head swivels from me to the counter. "Unh, unh. I want a tennis ball." Sigh.
At night, Archie insists on being tucked into bed — his way. If he's sleeping on his bed in the living room, I'll turn out the light and head down the hall to bed. Within five minutes, he'll slink down the hall (he's not allowed in the bedrooms — or the hall for that matter), poke his head around the door and say: "You forgot to put me to bed." Sigh. Why can't he just sleep on his dog bed? Why does he insist on sleeping in his crate? Why can't he just go put himself in the crate? Looking insistently at me, he goes "Come on. You know the deal here. You need to put me to bed." Double sigh. I follow. Once out in the sunporch, I open the back door, tell him to go "do it" and off he goes. Once finished, he races back to the door, I open it and he trots to his crate and turns around. Now if I just walk away, he will race out and say: "You're not done here." Or if I just shut the door — and hang a towel over it like usual — he will push his way out and say: "You forgot to lock the door." So I lock the door. No way can I outsmart this dog.
Really, we do love this dog but it might be nice if he wasn't quite so smart.
— Jan Heininger