The Little Dog
We have a little dog. Her name is Lil, and she's just shy of a year old now. We got her at a flea mart from a woman who claimed she was some sort of designer dog, but the little dog, like my wife and me, is a mutt. It’s better that way—believe me.
Her mom was certainly a Yorkshire terrier, and her dad, well, he was most likely a travellin’ man. Based on Lil’s appearance, he had some Chihuahua in him, and probably some Weiner dog too. Maybe some other stuff as well—a perfect example of generations of random dog sex.
Lil is the Best Dog Ever. About that there can be no doubt. She's a 10 pounder, and has a heart as big at the great outdoors. She's little, but fierce. And scruffy.
She sleeps with us, and likes expensive dog food.
I go to the grocery store on occasion and always buy some cold cuts—My wife gives about half of the cold cuts to the dog. The little dog doesn’t much care for doing her duty in the rain—and it rains a lot here in Northeast Ohio—so she gets to go to the bathroom wherever the mood hits her. In defense of the little dog, she doesn't do a number 1 anywhere but near a door, and she always holds it until the Very Last Moment. Not so much with the old Number 2. On the plus side of that, she's so small that the actual Number 2 is about the size of a Vienna sausage, and always has a nice consistency, making it easy to pick up—Or is that just far too much information?
She’s not really “yippy” like other small dogs, and she doesn't nip at people like other small dogs. She's more of a people person. Did I mention that she seems to think of herself as something in between a human and a dog? She views my wife and me the same, I opine. We're all just members of the man-dog pack.
I never had a small dog before, but I now recommend it. The only other dog I ever had who slept in my bed was my childhood Pointer, Mark, but, like so many things, that's a story for a different time.
Like I said—the best dog ever.
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