In Praise of the Smaller Dog

Far be it from me to tell anyone what sort of pet to keep.

As a child we had many pets furred, finned and feathered. Still, in the furred department this usually meant a dog.

Our family dogs came to us from the shelter or pound. To my knowledge there were no rescue organizations back then. In short they were usually one of a kind and of dubious pedigree. What folks most likely would call Mutts.

They were an odd assortment of sizes and colors. But all were at least twenty-five lbs, not more then seventy. Yes. Some of them came to us as puppies but soon grew past the puppy stage, small and cute into something called a dog that was in that general weight category.

Toy dogs, little tiny, fluffy and fragile were thought of as foo foo, of no use, a waste of dog food to Dad and my older brothers, manly men all! I guess as the youngest and the the only girl child I had inherited the notion that little dogs were simply out of the question.

I keenly remember joking as a teen, with a few friends, that a dog under twenty-five lbs. was a rat with laryngitis (bark) and a pituitary problem. That made them grow past the size any self respecting rat should grow.

Even as an adult I never really became fond of the toy breeds. The only dog that I had ever been bitten by was a tiny little nasty thing named Paco . . . a Chihuahua. This tended only to reinforce my feelings that little dogs tended to be testy little snits, since Paco was as short in stature as he was in temper.

Many years and dogs later, a few days after my last sweet old gal of a pit mix passed, I headed to the SPCA in hopes of finding one more warm doggie head to pet. It is indeed an unfortunate fact that our dear companion animals have much shorter live spans then we who care for them.

I guess I must have a neon sign on my forehead that reads 'Sucker' that only dogs in shelter cages can see. Because every time I walk into a shelter every dog in the place seems to be wearing their most pathetic "take me home PLEEEEEASE ?" look.

This time however , I came armed with the latest computer generated, Petfinder report that I had printed out so I actually knew of at least 3 dogs I might be interested in. Ahhh the joys of the digital age.

. The first was listed as a 'Female Spaniel mix : Young , healthy , and playful, Medium sized.

The second was listed as a 'Male Bichon Frise: Young, sweet natured and loveable.' Then the dreaded prognostication: "Size small." My aversion to toy breed dogs kicked in ... With a vengeance. I almost deleted the entry but for some reason allowed it to finish printing.

The third said simply 'German Shepherd mix, young, medium sized, well mannered.'

From previous experience with shelters I knew any breed assigned to any dog was generally the one that the particular mix breed dog looked most like and was no real indication of actual breeding at all. The terms for age had similar hazy connotations: 'Young' most likely meant from one to three years old. 'Adult' meant somewhere between four and seven years old and 'senior' could mean anywhere from seven till the day before the poor old pup passed away from old age. All were subject to mystical changes upon requesting to see said dog.

Thus the young spaniel mix turned out to be nine or ten years old . She, however, did look like a spaniel, was medium sized but a bit too old to be very playful.

The German Shepherd was very mixed: In fact, a bit more terrier then shepherd and was much larger then medium sized at a whopping 80 lbs. Well mannered, in this case, meant, I guess, he did not lunge to bite me. He did however have a nasty sounding growl and a rather menacing glare.

Having just lost my sweet old Pit-mix Penny, I had steeled myself with the idea that I just could not deal with having to lose another dog to soon after her parting. Sadly, the average spaniel tends to pass at about twelve years of age. I said to myself, "she is sweet but I just can't!" So the sweet old spaniel passed from my perspective adoption list .

The Shepherd/ terrier was just too large for our small condo and his well manneredness was still in question as well.

Lastly I asked to see the Bichon Frise... Even before viewing this french named, fancy little beastie, I was not happy.

The phases 'Foo Foo, Waste of dog food and good for nothing little thing' kept running though my mind. No doubt a vestige of my anti small dog up bringing . As I walked to the viewing area,which was at the very end of a row of kennel cages, two high, agitated barks and growls came at me from every side. Trying to make the best of the situation, I placated myself with .."Well, I am here and I might as well at least look at him. But Good Lord, A Bichon Frise?" A nagging revultion seemed to fill me just thinking it.

The afore mentioned Bichon Frise was in the very last kennel cage on top and barking and growling just as lustily as any of his shelter mates.

I was very pleasantly surprised to see not a tiny puffball of a toy dog but a rather handsome short cut neatly groomed sturdy little white critter with a very male bark not a toy breed yip. Yes, I had to admit he was a bit smaller at 13 lbs then my small dog past would let me be immediately comfortable with ... But still, He was not the tiny little fluffy fragile boned foo foo dog, I had imagined. Not to mention, he was growling and looking as if he wasn't all that fond of me either ... I commented to myself , "This is not a good omen."

The shelter attendant, a slender gal some where in her twenties, almost cajoled ..." Wanna take him for a bit of a walk?"

I hesitated, longing for my sweet old Penny girl more then ever. I wiped an unexpected tear from the corner of my eye and managed a slightly choked up "Sure." Clearing my throat. "Why not." She reached into his cage . He was no longer growling. (good sign?) She clipped a lead to his faded lime green collar "Oh my goodness! What a horrible color that collar is!" ran though my head. He bounded across the room to greet me. Instinctively I bent low and said "Hi ya boy !" His next move was a lightning flash, running leap into my arms. It was too late for misgivings ... I had been chosen!

Holding this diminutive canine version of Mr. Congeniality close , most of my anti -small dog prejudice seemed to slip away. A tiny wet tongue touched my cheek, and that prejudice was completely melted.

What was a human to do? Of course, I took him home. I'm happy to say we have been fast friends ever since. Mickey's size from the floor or his weight no longer matters to me now. His body may be small but he has an incredibly big heart ...We are family.

I have to admit to the fact that, now and again, when I see a nice Shetland Sheepdog, or a good looking German Shepherd or even a handsome hefty mix breed, I don't get a twinge of bigger dog nostalgia. It passes just as soon as those sweet warm eyes look into mine and a tiny wet tongue touches my cheek . This I can now say, truthfully, in praise of the smaller dog.