He had been raised in a truck. His owners drove a truck and that’s where he lived. At some point, they got The Duke. Who knows from where?
“What is he?” people ask and all I can say is “I have no idea.” He looks like a Border Collie crossed with some kind of Asian flat-faced dog — or maybe a Boston Terrier. Every day, I thank heaven for the availability of Prozac because, without it, he is just a wee bit difficult to control.
I’m sure his original owners were sure he was going to be a much smaller dog and he was smaller, even when we got him almost a year ago. When he got to be really difficult to handle — that Border Collie in there makes him a handful — they passed him to another owner who couldn’t manage him and put him in a crate where he was living when we took him in.
This is a dog about whom it is frequently said: “He needs a job.”
He can seem to be quite the tough little scoundrel. A blatant ragamuffin, although no more idle or worthless than any other “what is he?” mutt of a dog. I suppose one could consider him disrespectful.
He does as he pleases which can be maddening, but I think he has shaped us up pretty well and we behave much better than we did in the beginning. We tell him he’s a good boy, but really, he’s terrible and hilarious.
We are his third home and although we know we could easily rehome him, I think that would be cruel. He has had enough homes. I don’t think he would benefit from a different future. We’ve got him and he’s got us. We promised him he could stay here.
Here he will stay.