On Sunday, the 22nd of April, Tallyjack F5, “Twist” went into the earth for the last time. 

Twist came to me in February three years ago, with a genuine zeal for trouble.  Nothing about her was temperate or restrained.  Even at rest, she was as tightly wound as an eight pound cylinder of TNT, and equally potent.  Her world view came in one of two modes: full-on, drive-it-like-you-stole-it speed; or “good luck making me; that’s not what I’m doing, no matter what” refusal.  That was precisely why she came to me, and I was ready for the challenge.

The adventures of training Twist began with a desperate search for a crate that would hold her.  Crates were methodically destroyed and replaced with the next best design suggestion from a host of experienced handlers.  A custom aluminum airline shipping box with stainless steel bars was found to be the only worthy container.  You may have seen one like it, with a tiger inside being moved from one zoo to another.   

After about three months of rehabilitative tug toy training, Twist began to learn the subtleties of the sport of agility.  She taught me all I need to know about training a dog. Breaking down the jobs she needed to do really meant breaking it down.  If the task was vague, she simply wouldn’t have any of it.  She would race to the next obstacle full throttle rather than worry about why I wasn’t joining her.  I remember discovering her sheer speed and realizing that I had a world class team mate.  Interestingly, that moment also allowed the equally disappointing realization that Twist was with an average handler at best.  I needed to do some serious work to match her skill on course. 

Home life was interesting, too.  At just over 10 inches, she was almost unnaturally perfect.  Her head, well suited to the square balance of her brick house body, was irresistibly endearing.  However, her tolerance for a stranger’s touch was limited to about five seconds.  Typically, after answering “No, she really is an adult”, I would begin her repertoire of tricks in hopes of distracting people from fawning.  Not that she wasn’t an amazing companion, or that she wasn’t loved dearly by my whole family. My mother still gets a little teary eyed remembering the “Flying Wallenda” banking off the sofa at unimaginable speeds.  

Her athleticism was beyond anything I’d ever seen from a dog her size, and may remain inflated in my memory forever.  Perhaps this is a product of how unaware I was of the potential for something so tiny to be so powerful.  I vividly relive hunting with her.  You simply could not get her out of a hole.  I often wondered if she had the quarry in her mouth.  How could she hold on like she did?  On occasion, I managed to wend out a rear leg and tail in my hands. I still found myself unable to extract anything other than that limb.  She simply didn’t come out until she was ready.  Often, that was hours later. 

Clearly, she loved hunting more than life.  She did agility for me; I let her hunt.  I knew bringing her into the field was risky.  I’d been reading True Grit for 15 years, I’d had only expert advice from some of the best hunters in the South, and I recited the mantra, every time I let her off lead near a hole: “This could be the last time.”

My fault lies in under appreciating the springtime fauna of western Virginia, and the carelessness that causes car accidents to happen within five miles of home.  I read about skunks, knew about hemolytic anemia, but hadn’t seen or sniffed any on the property for years.  I knew to have collars on my dogs no matter what, but we were only going around the hill, and it was familiar.  I knew not to hunt alone, but needed to get away.  That’s why I drove the five hours from Atlanta. 

Under a crisp blue sky, Twist, Roux (my other terrier) and I left for a hike in woods five miles north of the Blue Ridge Parkway.  As we began the descent toward the river, Roux went ahead to investigate a sette that 15 years of terriers had worked countless times.  She dipped into the ground, but was out moments later with a new clay stained coat.  She’s a big girl, and has never pushed hard into cramped spaces even when something tantalizing was close.  The skunk was not threatened by her.  By this time, Twist was trembling; she was always checked while Roux ran ahead.  I tucked Roux into my armpit, and dropped Twist into the dark cavity.

Moments later, I registered the smell. It was unmistakable.  I was holding Roux, registering Twist’s characteristic sounds underground.  Subconsciously denying what might be happening, I stood up, and walked to a copse of trees where I imagined the skunk had recently passed.  I walked the 10 steps back to the sette.  I bent over, inhaled, refusing to believe that the smell was creeping steadily from it. When I didn’t hear anything, I knew.  Even so, I raced to the house, chose two shovels, somehow grabbed gloves, and threw Roux in the car.  I was digging for an hour, then I started calling anyone that would answer the phone.  I created alternate endings with my family and friends; she left the hole; she’d come out while I raced for the tools, and is now working somewhere else; or she is safe at the doorstep of my cabin.

Somewhere after digging five rocky, rooted feet in, with tears stinging my toxin-filled eyes, I stopped.   I started sobbing, and thought about seeing her lifeless body in the ground.  To what end?  To know she was there?  I knew where she went, and that she was still there.  She was so small and so determined.  She surely believed she was winning while the chemical warfare overtook her in the pitch black, soda can diameter depths. 

Having a terrier companion will call you daily to find joy in the same intensity that took her away from me.   I was lucky to know her, and even more fortunate to know how to learn from her.  Know the dangers, be prepared, and hunt your terrier.