Hilda: A triumph of selective genetic compromise

Our 10 year old 15 kg biological cocktail comprises of German Spitz, Jack Russel Terrier, and oddly so, Chesapeake bay Retriever, a combination of breeds that, on paper, should produce a dog capable of sprinting across a field, leaping into a freezing river, and barking ferociously at a passing cloud, all at the same time. However, since there is a black box of 20 other breeds involved, Hilda looked at her genetic blueprint, reviewed the terms and conditions, and politely opted out of almost all of it.

Physically, Hilda is an absolute masterpiece of inheritance. She completely bypassed the Spitz’s evolutionary strategy of looking like an exploded pom-pom. Instead, she wears a smooth tightly tailored coat of black and tan with a bit of grey sprinkles due to her age. Her weight is a direct handout from her Chesapeake Bay ancestors. She is solid. If you were to accidentally trip over Hilda in the dark, you would not hurt the dog; but simply fracture your shin.

It is in her behavioural choices, however, that Hilda truly shines as an individual. The Chessie was engineered over centuries to plunge joyfully into the icy, churning waters of the Atlantic to fetch dead ducks. It is a breed that is, for all practical purposes, half-fish. Hilda hates water with a passion that borders on the religious. To her, rain is a personal insult, and a puddle is an impassable chasm of liquid despair. She prefers her paws dry, her towel warm, and her dignity entirely uncompromised.

Similarly, the Jack Russel in her DNA should compel her to spend twenty-four hours a day vibrating with manic energy, digging through the sofa cushions in search of imaginary badgers. Hilda has decided that this sounds like far too much cardio.

She boasts almost no discernible hunting drive, having calculated that the energy expended chasing wildlife rarely correlates with a satisfactory return on investment. The only notable exceptions to this pacifism are the local cats and squirrels, both of which she hates fiercely.

If Hilda has inherited anything from her clever ancestors, it is an intellect of terrifying precision. But it is an intellect that operates under a strict capitalistic framework. Hilda does not perform tricks for applause. She does not do them out of a desperate desire to please. Her brain operates purely on a "Cash only, and by cash I mean treats, the good ones!" policy. If you have a piece of horse lung, Hilda will happily solve advanced calculus, open a small business, or successfully dismantle a cardboard box with the enthusiasm of a maniacal customs officer. If you do not have treats, Hilda will turn on her Karen-mode, look at you with malevolent pity and demand to speak with the manager.

She is, in short, a wonderful, water-fearing, snack-fueled monument to doing exactly as much as is strictly necessary, and not a single calorie more.