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Frank Morris
Frank Morris. 16 November 2022

Merry Christmas: I’m very understanding towards older people, says Comfort the dog

I don’t have a name, as yet (above). In the pound, I’m referred to as “the dog”, not even “terrier”, but just “the dog”.

Let’s cut to the chase. Compared to other carnivorous domesticated hounds of all sizes, many are well-bred; I have lived with a few of them! See, I’m a bit breed of border terrier. I’ve got at least three strains in me, but don’t get me wrong, I’m not strange.

Eleven months ago, I was picked at a dog pound by a carer who had just lost his wife. One of his daughters was by his side.

“Let’s just name him Comfort,” said the carer. My owner was in his mid-sixties. The daughter agreed. She carried me to the car. After she got in she said, “Maybe I should get a small dog. What do you think? This one is so nice”.

Hmm, said the carer with a smile.

A whole bunch of ladies at the dog shelter treated us extra-well. And I spent my time frolicking around with a bright terrier a bit older than me. He taught me things – in fact, lots of things.

In the main, I’m very affectionate, and the carer spotted it. The carer wiggled his fingers and I ran towards him. I looked around at the terrier.

He was dumbfounded. His eyes were glazed over, not because I was going but he was going to lose a friend. I barked my cheery good-byes to him; and was gone.

Jousting with my carer.

As I grew older, the carer always spoke kind words to me. He looked at me and said, “You’re a most elegant little animal”. I followed him around or kept an eye on him, even at play!

But on this occasion, I fell asleep …

All I recall are the wide spaces. In my dreams, which were humungous, I was down at the park. It was here that I brought out another of my worldly traits; being artistic.

I don’t draw, I don’t paint, I don’t do, aah … but I can do artistic body-shapes on the field.
It was just natural. That’s not say that I also elected to do some damn painstaking practice to boot.

But I dreamed on …

First, the field comes alive with my antics playing catch-the-ball. They never witnessed anything like it.

The carer tosses the ball into the air, then I jump and let my body perform all the tricks.

One trick is (I call them tricks) that I’m in the air ready to catch the ball in my mouth; next is my front feet, protecting all my body, and showing amazing skill, grabbing the ball, with my shape-wise falling to the ground.

Dogs in the pound: Me (left) and my mum!

The crowd clapped.

I must have done at least a dozen tricks like this. The best one, I feel, was when I used my tummy to bounce the ball and me catching it with back paws.

It’s hard to believe but I travelled kilometres off the ground and I had a hypnotic view. The crowd loved it. Every artistic trick got the people gaping. Some with horror.

My performances draw people from all walks of life to the field. They expected to see a magnificent show.

When it was over, so was the dream. You could see the relief in my face.

On this day, a district inspector came and gave my tummy a pat. As usual, I was sitting by my owner’s side.

 “Come on Comfort, let us get something to drink and eat.”

Then he picked me up and off we trotted.


Raise a border terrier?


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