Life with two Scottie dogs is anything but dull. Our current beasties are 8-year-old Mulligan (Mully), shown on the chair, and 3-year-old Iggy up top. We’ve had other Scottish Terriers over the years and we find that having two is better than one because they can hang out together. They sleep, play, and explore the yard together, and when one is missing the other always seems to know where to find him, whether it’s in a favorite napping spot or outside on patrol.
But the story of Iggy is on my mind since in a week we’ll celebrate the 2nd anniversary of his Gotcha Day with a special treat and a new toy. Two years ago, my youngest daughter heard about a one-year-old male Scottie about 40 miles away that needed to be re-homed. His owner couldn’t take care of him anymore and was going to return him to the breeder. It didn’t take long for us to make a call and set up an appointment to meet Iggy. We took Mully along to meet him, too.
You see, about five months earlier Mully had lost his best friend and we had lost our sweet companion, a wheaten Scottie named Tavish. When Tavish died suddenly shortly before his 11th birthday, we all grieved, as did Mully who would sit outside alone in areas he and Tavish enjoyed together, and who would barely play with us. Mully needed a new friend.
That Sunday afternoon in October 2015, we made arrangements to meet Iggy. Our grandson sat in the backseat with Mully and the four of us made the drive to Taft. I couldn’t wait to meet the little black dog we’d seen photos of and when we arrived at the given address, there was Iggy with a red harness and leash, bouncing and jumping, pulling at the leash, and excited to see us. We didn’t want to get Mully out of the car until we’d met Iggy and decided to adopt him, and when we did introduce him, Mully wasn’t impressed. Actually, he still isn’t impressed. Sometimes I think he wonders what we were thinking.
And I wondered the same thing. At first, Iggy didn’t fit in. He had been on two different allergy medicines for his first year of life and the meds had kept him subdued. On the advice of our vet we stopped both at once. Now that he wasn’t taking any meds he didn’t know how to act or control himself. He was hyper and bouncy and barked and jumped on us and what manners he did have were poor. To his credit, he was housebroken and crate trained and, except for a few on-purpose accidents at the beginning, he has been an exemplary house dog. But at the beginning I was ready to send him back. I’m so thankful my husband encouraged me to have patience because he was right: Iggy is a good little dog and wants to please us.
Iggy came to us with his name. It isn’t short for anything but we’ve come up with several possibilities depending on his antics and our state of mind: Ignacio, Ignoramus, Ignatius, Igor. He loves blankets, balls, squeaky toys, and a warm lap. He can de-squeek a softie or chew through a rubber toy faster than any dog we’ve owned. He bravely protects me from the vacuum monster with a lot of biting and barking, and even though it takes twice as long for me to clean the floor, at least he makes it exciting. He sings in the perfect Scottie trill and talks to me when he thinks he needs a t-r-e-a-t. I’d like to get his DNA checked because I think he is part cat and part pogo stick. This silly dog brings us a lot of laughter, love, and joy.
Now, two years later, I don’t know who is more thankful: Iggy for finding a forever home with us, or us for finding Iggy.