Weekly Shocks' Blog

Small, Pretend Dogs: Seriously, Why?

A dog or a four-legged albino Cher? You decide.

A dog or a four-legged albino Cher? You decide.

I’m going back to Boston tomorrow for a bit of a holiday. Hooray! Right now, I’m in the middle of packing. Packing for me is a seven-hour process that involves six hours and fifty-five minutes of procrastination and five minutes of dragging out my suitcase and throwing as much dirty laundry as I can into the thing along with my teddy bear, and, if I can remember them, my toothbrush, passport, wallet, and plane ticket. It’s a pretty efficient process, I have to say.

I love Oxford tons, but I am glad to be going home for a bit. It’ll be good to see my family, friends, the city, and – though I’m loathe to admit it – my small, yippy, and kick-able Pomeranian dog.

No offense to small-dog lovers, but seriously, why? Why bother getting a dog at all? Why not just put a rat on a leash, or have a baby? Babies are nowhere near as high-maintenance as most small dogs, and they probably shed less, too. (Puggles, of course, are obviously exempt from my small-dog contempt.)

I admit a profound bias in favor of large dogs, mostly because they’re way better, and also because I grew up with a pair of enormous, lovable, goofy giant puppies who kicked ass, took names, and drooled lots, the way dogs are supposed to do. My first dog, Barney, was a Golden Retriever-German Shepherd mutt who was so badass he single-handedly devoured a raw, thirty-pound turkey in fifteen minutes. Even when he subsequently barfed the whole thing up in our yard, he did so with a swagger and panache. I’d like to see some rat terrier or chihuahua attempt that! Barney was smart as a whip, too, and we taught him to chase his tail on command by hollering, “Kill, kill!” until he got confused and excited and decided his tail was THE ENEMY. What a great dog.

Five years after we got Barney, we decided he needed a friend. Also, he had finally outgrown his puppy phase and we missed having everything in the house chewed up, peed on, or otherwise destroyed. So we got a Black Lab. Holy cow, what a beast of a dog! My mom insisted on naming her Tasha after a pet she had when she was young. Naturally, the rest of us thought Tasha was a profoundly stupid name for a dog. Tasha obviously agreed, because she reduced our entire house to a smoldering pile of rubble in about six weeks. That dog broke things I didn’t even know we owned. I think she even chewed up the tires on our car at one point. We were all so impressed with this massive fur-ball of energy and destruction, we gave her the brilliantly suitable nickname Trashy, and she spent the rest of her days incessantly wagging her tail, knocking over glassware, furniture, and people with her incessantly wagging tail, and viciously attacking and barking at dust mites.

The one disadvantage of large dogs is that they have a nasty habit of dying. This is how we ended up getting our Pomeranian rat-dog. Our poor Trashy had to be put to sleep due to a painful, incurable illness, and a few months afterward, my dad, older sister, and niece went out ostensibly to pick up something for dinner. They instead came home with the yippy Pomeranian. (This actually happened rather a lot in my family. I can’t count the number of times one or both of my parents would go out to get a pizza or pick up the dry-cleaning and would come back with a new furry creature to add to our menagerie. I’ve just realized how profoundly weird that is.) The Pomeranian had been named Honey by whatever sick and twisted fruit had owned her before and she was the most spoiled, pain-in-the-ass, yippy, and annoying creature on the planet. Of course I love her to bits. And I’m not saying I’d trade her for anything. But she really is a pathetic excuse for a dog. I mean, I can pick her up. And carry her. AND SHE ENJOYS IT! That’s just so wrong. Plus, when I take her for walks, she actually … prances. There’s really no other way to describe the pathetic, high-stepping trot she breaks into when she’s on a leash. It’s fey and embarrassing. Seriously, it’s always a little soul-crushing to be seen with her in public because she clearly thinks she’s the cutest thing this side of the Mississippi, and I really don’t need to be competing with a dog for overall cuteness.

My mom is not so enamoured of our little rat-dog and always threatens to hide her in my suitcase when I go back to England. Yeah, right. There’s so much dirty laundry in my suitcases, the furry mutt would just smother in it. And if she didn’t, she’d probably end up eating my teddy bear. And then I’d have to kill her. And either way, with a dead dog on our hands, we’d just have to get another one, and this one might be even smaller and yippier than the one we have now! Ha! Nice try, mummy. You’re stuck with her.


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  1. Small, Pretend Dogs: Seriously, Why? Weekly Shocks Blog | Pamper Your Pet pingbacked on 8 years, 12 months ago


  1. * Joe Raygor says:

    I can’t help but laugh, because my parents own a Pomeranian too and all she does is yipe and go to the bathroom anywhere/everywhere, yet she’s so darn cute that I can’t help but to love it. Her name’s Annie. (I’ve even uploaded pictures of her to my FaceBook, the world must see her cuteness!)

    Anyway, have fun in Boston. 🙂

    Posted 9 years ago
  2. * nahgems says:

    I was having a discussion just the other day about whether I would rather be attacked by 200 lbs of labrador, or 200 lbs of chihuahua. I’d pick the lab any day.

    Posted 9 years ago
  3. * matt says:

    This blog’s great!! Thanks :).

    Posted 9 years ago
  4. * fakedasmyle says:

    The dog ate the tires – nice….. Our lab ate the siding off our house. My husband elected to blame the cocker spaniel for the “remodel”, because the lab is his. The girls and I remain unconvinced since the damage is more than twice as high as the cocker…and more than once we’ve had to “floss” our home out of the lab’s teeth.

    Yippy dogs are for old women – stick with the full-sized dogs!

    Posted 9 years ago

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