Bonnie hit the nail on the head (see comment on my previous post from Scraps of Me).
This sharp-witted little Scottie pointed out that a wire-haired fox terrier is just a bit....ummm.... Sassenach. English that is. Not a Scottish terrier at all.
Well we are wading into deep and murky waters here, truly.
With Hamish there was no question. The breed, the birthplace, the permanent home, the names. Even his official (and wholly appropriate) name, 'Independent Laddie'. No taint of the soft southerner there.
As for his owner. Meaning me. Now I've lived in Scotland for more than eleven years, I work here, all the property I own lies North of the border, I have degrees from the University of Aberdeen. An ancestor who came from St Monans, Fife, bequeathed me my Scottish surname. My complexion is pale and a bit freckly. I look like I fit in.....
Until, that is, I open my mouth. Pure and unmodified BBC English vowel sounds are what you hear. The 'r' in Bertie will not be rolled. The 't' will be sounded crisp and clear.
Need we worry that young Bertie will suffer from an identity crisis? When England play Scotland at football or rugby, which team will the new pup be cheering on? An English terrier born to a Scottish family in NE Scotland. With a Scottish (Gaelic even) names on his official papers, but in everyday life going by the rather English-sounding 'Bertie'. Soon to be living in Aberdeen with an Englishwoman.
Will he bark in Doric? Or will the other dogs in the park laugh at his affected English tones?
All this is for the future. I am reminded of a time eight years ago when Hamish and I met up with some English friends for short break staying in a cottage near Ben Nevis. The football World Cup was in progress. My godson Ben, then eleven years old, had the previous week apparently painted a red cross on his ash blond hair to signal his support for the England team. This was at his home near London. England were scheduled to play again (I think it was Sweden?) during our little holiday. Ben was ready with the red dye, but his mother and father sensibly persuaded him that the St George's cross hairdo would not be considered a good look in the Scottish Highlands...
Undeterred, Ben looked over towards my fluffy white Westie and piped up "I know Gail, we can paint Hamish instead!'
I am sure that you know me well enough by now to guess that I did not permit my dear wee Scottish laddie to be subjected to this gross indignity..