Prince Edward Island, the smallest province of Canada, is famous for Anne of Green Gables. Well, Anne and potatoes, but Anne brings in more tourists.
That beloved children’s book was written in 1908. In it, someone in Avonlea is going into Charlottetown, the provincial capital, to pick out an orphan to bring back with them to help with the work on the farm. Matthew Cuthbert asks that a boy be brought back for his farm as well. They get a girl instead, and the rest is fictional history.
The subject of purebred animals is a touchy one. Attitudes range from “Anyone who buys a purebred dog is killing a shelter dog” (PETA), to “My dog is a fashion accessory and as such not only has to be purebred but fit into my purse.” (Any Kardashian, plus their spiritual mother, Paris Hilton).
Puppy or adult? Mutt or purebred? Which breed? Breeder or rescue?
It’s easy to make an emotional decision about dogs. “Oh look, there’s a dog that has been horribly neglected. Let’s adopt him!” Or “Oh. My. God. Just look at how beautiful that breed is. I must have one.”
I’ve told the story elsewhere of how the currents of sheer dumb luck brought me to a fantastic breeder who sold me my beloved Toby, a Belgian Terverun
I knew absolutely nothing about Belgian Shepherds when I started thinking about getting a dog. I actually wanted a Border Collie. I think at heart, I believed possessing such a dog would somehow magically help me inhabit a fragment of that classic dreamy landscape; the one where the fiercely independent shepherd stands watch, isolated on a windy hill, looking out across a thousand acres of farmland dotted with sheep, attended only by the intelligent, loyal dog responding to the slightest command.