Today is the day our country sets aside for flag-waving, remembering national heroes, and celebrating our independence. It’s the 4^th of July, our Independence Day.

But when we’re skinned at the gas pump by wildly extorted oil prices and scalped of the American dream of homeownership by the mortgage meltdown, it’s hard to feel very ‘independent.’ At home and abroad we’ve never been more dependent or short of heroes.

At times like these my Scotties are an oasis in a desert of madness for me. Sitting alone in quietness with Albie or Burnsie on my lap the tactile sensation of their muscle relaxation and their complete trust in my care translate into lower blood pressure for me. They see me as their hero. What they don’t realize is, they’re heroes and helpers for me, too.

They’re my healers in hard times because they show me a better way to cope with problems than dwelling on them. ‘Bad news’ is simply not their focus. Instead, they devote themselves to their helpers. That’s what my Albie does when a goat-head sticker cripples her paw: she looks for me in simple confidence and trust that I’ll be there to help. That’s what Fred Rogers’ mother told him to do when he worried over scary things in the news. “Look for the helpers,” she used to say to the child who became “Mr. Rogers” of the Neighborhood, “You will always find people who are helping.”

Some might call that simplistic, but I find it simple and comforting and true. In every disaster, in every bout of hard times, the grim and threatening can occupy our attention … but there are also always angels who are authentic helpers if we will see them.

Not everyone out there is a ‘helper’ of course. But authentic helpers are there, if we look for them. You can find true helpers in Scottish Terrier circles, in family circles, in neighborhoods, in congress, in Uganda, in Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Middle East. And just like my dogs and Mr. Rogers, I find it is healing to look for the helpers.

But on this 4^th of July let me challenge you to go beyond looking for the helpers. Let me challenge YOU to roll up your sleeves and become for those around you one of the helpers we all wish to find. All of this is relevant to our celebration of the 4^th because hard times put us in touch with our deepest freedom–our freedom to act, not react, to circumstances, our choice to smile when the world frowns, our freedom to have a grateful spirit even when we have little.

Today, parade your inner freedom and liberty by becoming the ‘good’ you long for in the world. In fact, if you will be to those you meet today the hero-helper your Scottie knows you are, those around you will see real independence at its most basic and best.

Joseph Harvill, publisher of Great Scots Magazine

I hope I’m not libeling the lads, but, speaking from my experience of Roderick Dhu and the various fellow countrymen of his that he meets, it seems to me that Scotsmen don’t get on very well together.

I’ve only to see, for instance, another black gentleman from Aberdeen approaching, and I know there’s going to be trouble.

They don’t exactly fight, but there always seems to be an exchange of remarks which, judging by the tone in which they are uttered, are the reverse of complimentary.

You’d have thought that one Northerner meeting another far from his native heather would have fraternized, and passed a friendly ‘Scots wha’ haggis!’ or whatever the expression is.

But nothing of the sort happens at all. Now, why is this, I wonder? I admit that I don’t know very much about Highland feuds, though I understand there is a certain amount of very proper pride and jealousy among the different clans, and I can only suggest this as the cause of all these dark mutterings.

But it’s all rather trying.

Yesterday was an example; I don’t know why (perhaps there had been an excursion) but we seemed to meet a regular spate of bonny wee Highlanders, and the things that were said—well, it really made me feel that up to now all these Peace Conferences have been just a waste of time.

Firstly, we met two of Roddie’s breed.

Well I know them of old, so while their mistress restrained them we crossed the road, and the encounter passed off with nothing worse than three dirty looks.

But in the Gardens themselves an elderly Scottish gentleman was lying under a seat, Roddie approached incautiously, and a most violent exchange of epithets followed.

Roddie, I fancy, got the worst of the exchange; I can generally tell when that happens because he always puts on an extra air of jauntiness to cover the fact. “Hullo,” I said to him as he swaggered up, “he sorted you—isn’t that the word?—properly that time, my lad.”

Mr. Dhu shook himself.

“On the contrary,” he blustered, “I put him in his place.

“Hullo, a squirrel!” and he rushed off after a bit of paper.

Well, at least one more encounter of the same sort happened in the Gardens, and when we got in sight of home I’m bothered if there wasn’t a small Scottie hanging round our very gate. Now if it had been any other breed Roddie would probably have started a game, but not in this case.

He advanced slowly, and at the sight of him the other seemed to bristle; then they both stood still and regarded each other, very stiff-legged. “Hoots!” rumbled Rod, nastily. “And Toots! To you!” retorted the other promptly. “Bandy.”

“Banks, braes and Bannockburrns!” growled Rod. “Get awa’ from my gate, ye feckless wee loon. Oot, I say, or—“ But here the dialect became so strong that I removed him indoors.

I asked for an explanation later. “Tell me,” I begged, “do you all really dislike each other, or is it just bluff to deceive us Southerners? I wish you’d tell me,” but Roddie merely grinned and refused to reply. He was giving nothing away; he’s a Scot.

But nothing brings out the feistiness of the Scot quite like a buzzing fly. They annoy Roddie a lot. He was having his afternoon nap when it came rambling into the room in a hesitating sort of way, as if it wasn’t quite sure of its welcome.

“This seems a peaceful sort of spot,” it seemed to be saying to itself, “but you never can tell. People do bang about so.” It dithered about around for a minute or two and settled on the arm of Roddie’s chair. “This,” it evidently decided, “appears peaceful enough. I think I’ll wash the back of my neck.”

But, quiet as its arrival had been, it wasn’t quiet enough for Roddie. He opened one eye in a suspicious manner, saw the fly, and made an idle snap. “Pssst!” exclaimed the fly, removing itself irritably, “I knew it! Something like this always happens. I wonder why it is?”

It circled round and round the ceiling, while Roddie dozed off again, and then approached me.

“Get away,” I requested, flapping at it, and the fly retired disgruntled.

“Oh, all right, all right,” it grumbled. “No need to push. I’m going, aren’t I?” and the silly thing rambled off and sat down heavily on Roddie’s back. “Rest here for a bit,” it said, “on the hearth rug.”

Roddie twitched, but the fly took no notice. Roddie twitched again, more violently, and as he screwed his head sharply round, the fly evacuated his position.

“I’ll go quiet,” it said hastily. “Doing no harm, I wasn’t,” but by this time Mr. Dhu was wide awake and highly indignant.

“Wretched fly,” he growled. “Nestling on me! I’ll teach it,” and he made a snap at the departing insect and fell out of the chair.

The fly, I fancy, must have given a mocking laugh which put Roddie’s back up, for he went in hot pursuit. For a moment he seemed to lose sight of it, and glared round in a baffled manner; then it settled on the wall and he spotted it again.

“Got it!” he shouted, and he made one flying leap onto a chair, scattering papers in all directions, and made a vicious snap.

Needless to say, all he did was to bang his nose against the wall, after which he fell off that chair, too, taking what papers remained, with him. “Well,” I said, “that’s a jolly nice mess, Rod. What are you going to do about it?”

“Couldn’t help it,” he grumbled. “Not going to be insulted by flies. Where is the thing? Ha!”—and he made futile dashes into various parts of the room and over most of the furniture; after which he sat down and panted.

The fly, meanwhile, appeared to have been enjoying itself; it flew round in a self-important manner, and finally settled on the divan and started crawling slowly down.

Roddie had by this time decided that his rushing tactics were no good, so he crouched, with quivering nose, waiting for the insect to stop. As he did so Pat walked in. “Shhh!” hissed Roddie. “See that fly? I’m going to catch it in a minute.”

“A minute?” asked Pat. “Why not now?” He made one lightning dart and the fly (ugh!) was no more.

Hard luck, Rod

Reprinted from a chapter in the blogger’s new book, MacDuffy’s Reader, available from Tartan Scottie > http://www.tartanscottie.com/scottie_book_video_audio.htm

I spent most all day Sunday down at our donkey corral with the dogs and the donkeys building an inner corral and “kid’s playhouse” for five new baby pygmy goats due to arrive next week. The New Mexico sun was sweltering, the work, including digging post holes, was physical and tiring to these writer’s hands.

I remember my late father-in-law’s question years ago when we brought a third Scottie into our family. In disbelief he asked in genuine concern: “What are you thinking? Why add more animals to your busy life?” I can only guess what his worried expression might be as we prepare for our new “kids.”

I think the answer to the ‘why-are-you-doing-this’ question is: “Because they’re so much trouble!” To some, that’s precisely reason for backing off, ‘down-sizing,’ cutting back. After all, who wants trouble, right?

But I’m finding my life is enriched by learning to cope with the “trouble” my Scotties and donkeys and goats bring into my little world. They constantly push my tolerance, stretch my patience, enlarge my capacity to perceive situations and life from their perspective. I get it wrong more than I get it right, and there are times when I berate myself with my father-in-law’s question, but I’m learning that the “trouble” inherent in animal individuality, personality, and character is actually the richest legacy they leave in my memories.

English plant physiologist, Rupert Sheldrake, in his book A New Science of Life: The Hypothesis of Formative Causation, insists “we stand on the threshold of a new phase of science in which further research into the powers of nonhuman animals … may be able to tell us something very important not only about the nature of life and mind but also about the nature of time.”

The ‘trouble’ my strong-willed Scotties and other animals bring into my life goes much deeper than work-a-day chores my father-in-law imagined. My animals, especially my strong-willed Scotties, challenge who I am, who I think I am, and what it means to be me.

What I mean is, my animals get me out of my self-absorption, get me out of life inside my head defined by plastic culture, away from cognitive abstractions, and in touch with life at basic, elemental levels. Eyeball to eyeball with a Scottish Terrier or a donkey or a chicken or a goat is a rather humbling experience for this human for the simple reason that all the social credentialing by which we normally define ourselves, by which we humans dazzle one another into ‘proper’ deference and social approval, mean nothing. Educational distinction, degrees, training, professional accolades buy you nothing in Scottie eyes or in a donkey corral! There, it’s put-up-or-shut-up in terms of what is simple, basic, and real.

That’s not a bad thing. In fact, for this writer, at least, it’s a point of discovery and growth. Like Rupert Sheldrake, I’m finding my animals tell me important things about the nature of life. Biologists refer to animals such as peregrine falcons, grizzly bears, northern spotted owls as “indicator species,” meaning the decline of these animals indicates risk way beyond their numbers. That notion resonates for me, especially with reference to the Scottish Terriers at the center of my life.

The more I know about our breed, and particularly the Scotties who’ve owned my heart for the past dozen years, the more inclined I am to view Scottish Terriers as an ‘indicator specie’ for us moderns. Their transition from rural, have-not Scotland’s working-class doggies with neither pedigree nor class to become one of today’s elitist breeds whose function is its showring form, mirrors our own urbanization, loss of primal roots to farms and the land, and our lives measured by image and ’show.’

Something else. Just as my Scottie ‘indicator’ dogs demonstrate the risk of losing connection to the land and the risk of standards that trivialize existence into pagantry and show, they also pose for me the risk to my humanity of losing my sense of purpose. Today’s bred-for-form Scottie no longer looks like his working-terrier ancestor and scarcely knows his going-to-ground original purpose as today’s urban couch potato companion.

Similarly, I’m troubled to think that for all our sophistication we’ve ‘bred’ ourselves out of a clear sense of human purpose. What are we for? What does it mean to be human? Who is the good man? What is the good life? Is there more to life than consumption, more to the good society than consumer goods? This is the existential ‘trouble’ which deep bonds to my Scotties and my other animals bring into focus in my life.

So, why do I move now to add pygmy goats to my little world? Because like my Scotties, my miniature donkeys, my cats, my chickens, little goats are “so much trouble”—the kind that re-connects me to primal realities of nature, the land, and my own creatureliness in the circle of life.

Joseph Harvill, publisher of Great Scots Magazine