Last month at work, I saw a dog that weighed 3 ½ pounds. It was a chihua, who was not pleased with her checkup. She was the size of a large squirrel and her eyes did not blink, in case we opted to eat her instead of give her an exam. Then I said to the tech, I could go smaller!
Tiny Dog is a trim six pounds. I put a pound of muscle on the girl since I adopted her. I consider her very very small.
For comparison, this week, I examined a 170 lb Irish wolfhound, whose nose was the size of Tiny Dog. This hound saw her walking around behind the clinic front desk, and he started to whine. He loves small dogs, said his owner. I got a little nervous, put her in a cage.
When I started living with dogs, my first one being an 80 pound lab cross, I did not imagine smaller dogs as even the same species. I could wrap my arms around his big red chest and felt grounded. The small breed dogs seemed to flutter by, out of my periphery.
I helped my three large dogs as they declined, in and out of the house, hard on us all. We put in ramps, carpets, and used slings. Everyone’s backs hurt. Now, things have shifted. Now, I can hold Tiny Dog in the palm of my hand, tuck her into my jacket, and off we go. I sneak her into a coffee shop and for a moment, we pretend we are in Europe. But in the EU, big dogs get to have coffee too. As they should.
|Latte or bubble tea, Tiny Dog insists she come along.|