BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN
Last week I sat by the fire in the Highwayman, a pint of local ale sweating gently in my hand, while the conversation turned, as it so often does in these parts of Devon, to terriers.
There is something about a terrier that defies the modern age. In a world increasingly enamoured with fragility—with dogs bred for laps and Instagram, their features exaggerated to the point of caricature—the terrier remains stubbornly, gloriously useful.
My own Patterdale, Angus, a ten-pound tempest of muscle and nerve, lay at my feet, still damp from an afternoon spent routing a rabbit from a hedgerow. He was, in his way, the very picture of canine perfection—though perfection, I have come to realise, is a mutable thing.
The Reverend John Russell knew this. His dogs, those rough-and-ready earth-workers from across the A30 in North Devon, were never meant for show benches. They were bred to do—to slip into the dark beneath a barn, to face down teeth twice their size, to emerge victorious or not at all. But time has a way of sanding down edges, and the terrier of today must be more than a hunter. It must be a companion, a guardian, a creature at ease in both field and fireside.
Patterdale
Courage in a terrier is a given. Without it, the dog is merely a terrier in name—a decorative thing, all bark and no bite. But courage untempered is chaos. I have seen Patterdales, magnificent in their defiance, charge headlong into folly, deaf to recall, blind to consequence. I witnessed Angus plunge from a high balcony just to puncture a rugby ball on the lawn below. The Border Terrier, by contrast, possesses a steadiness—a quiet, workmanlike resolve that says, ‘I will get the job done, but I shan’t make a spectacle of it.’
Border
Then there is the Norwich, with its cheerful disposition, and the Rat Terrier—an American upstart, perhaps, but one whose sharp wit and adaptability have won it a place in the hearts of British farmers. Blend these traits, and you begin to see the outline of the ideal: a dog bold enough to bolt a fox, yet biddable enough to heed a child’s command.
Rat
Size?
Twelve to sixteen pounds—that is the sweet spot. Enough weight to weather a moorland squall, yet light enough to slip through a drainpipe after a rat. The modern obsession with tininess has done no favours for working breeds; a terrier should be compact, yes, but never delicate.
The Coat?
A terrier’s coat ought to be as practical as a shooter’s waxed jacket. The Lakeland’s wiry resistance to bramble and rain, or the Border’s dense undercoat—either would serve. What it must not be is high maintenance. A terrier should emerge from a thicket looking as though it has just returned from a grand adventure, not a salon.
Health & Hardiness?
Too many terriers today are victims of their own popularity—bred carelessly, their lines weakened by the demands of fashion. The perfect terrier must be sound. The Patterdale’s rugged constitution, the Border’s longevity—these are the foundations upon which a proper dog is built. A terrier should live hard, work harder, and die old, with its teeth worn down from use.
Work?
Even now, in this age of combine harvesters and digital pest control, the terrier’s purpose endures. There will always be rats in barns, foxes in henhouses, rabbits in hedgerows. The perfect terrier must have the drive to tackle them, the intelligence to do so efficiently, and the restraint to bark only when necessary. The Jack Russell’s boundless energy, tempered by the Rat Terrier’s trainability, would make for a formidable combination.
The Name?
What to call such a paragon? The Devon Terrier has a ring to it, though some might argue it treads too close to the Devon Hunt Terrier. The Moorland Terrier, perhaps—a nod to the rough country it would call home. But names, in the end, matter less than substance. Call it what you will, so long as it remains what it must always be: a dog of function, not fashion.
So I put it to you—those who know these dogs best. Should the perfect terrier be quieter for modern living? More accommodating of suburban life? Or does the old standard—tough, spirited, unpretentious—still hold true?
The answer, I suspect, lies somewhere between sense and fire.
Dominic Wightman is the Editor of Country Squire Magazine, works in finance, and is the author of five and a half books including Conservatism (2024).