Harlequin aka Harley Dog

We acquired a dog in August 2008, much to the surprise of my wife who maintains she was shanghaied into accepting the deal. I’d wanted a dog for around 10 years but my contracting lifestyle didn’t suit it — long days, constantly moving. It wouldn’t be fair.

It was only after we moved to Vancouver and settled down that it finally became a possibility. My daughter was also 8 so she was approaching sensibility. I came across a breeder that had some Australian Shepherd puppies for sale about half-a-mile from my Father-in-law’s farm in Agassiz so we popped in, just to see.

They were six weeks old at the time and while it wasn’t a breed I knew, I did my research and it fitted the bill. It was an athletic, intelligent dog that was loyal and child-friendly. I gave my best doe-eyed look and pleaded with the wife who let me have him. I had to wait until 8 weeks though and then the trouble started.

We had a family holiday in Mexico when he was 5 months old and I’d already gone through his errant potty training, chewing the wooden flooring, eating drywall so I spent most of our two weeks reading every Cesar Milan book on raising dogs. I returned with a new vigour for solving my problems, not his.

I needed to walk him more. So I started exercising him more, varying his routine between the dog park and long walks. I drove 10 minutes down the snow-covered hill to walk around the central city park. Within a week he was a changed animal, far more obedient, far less skittish and a pleasure to be around. Our family and friends thought we’d drugged him!

And now he’s just turned three. He’s a blue merle Australian Shepherd with one blue eye, one brown eye, one black ear, one ‘blue’ ear, a brown front foot and a white front foot. He was named Harlequin because what else do you call such a colourful character.

I wish he’d stop jumping at people when they stoop to pet him and it would be good to chase a ball now and again but I know he’s trainable. I’m the problem, not him.

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