A week ago, my daughter dropped off her dog. I don’t know if it was a last minute act of desperation, her regular dog sitter falling through, or a little test to see if I could handle the eventual arrival of a granddaughter or grandson who would stay overnight.
Buddy is a Yorkie. My daughter always wanted a Yorkie, and in her blessed life, one jumped into her car one day while she was in college. He has been with her ever since.
Of course, the years have passed. Buddy isn’t a little puppy anymore. He’s a bit aged, in fact. He has but two teeth left. This causes his mouth to chatter at times as he tries to realign them so he can close his mouth fully. He has to have soft food as a result.
Beyond that, Buddy is hardly an old dog. I have discovered this in the intervening week. Like me, he continue to write checks his body could never cash.
You see, Buddy doesn’t seem to understand that he’s old. He can leap onto the sofa, four times his height, like a gazelle.
He can dart in and out of a room with the speed of the Flash and he’s not shy about taking you on in a playful game of whose top dog around here. He is quite the little bundle of joy and energy.
The Janmeister has spoiled him rotten, just like a good Janma should. She will make a great grandmother for the upcoming moppet, as long as said moppet enjoys scrambled eggs for breakfast, lots of out time to drop poopies in the yard and having his or her belly rubbed endlessly while on the sofa.
In short, Buddy had Janma wrapped around his little finger, uh, paw. In no time, he was ruling the roost. I know this because I would be challenged for my alpha role every time I walked through the door. Within moments, Buddy was at my feet, challenging me.
Now, Buddy is a very little dog. Smaller than any dog I’ve been around. Jasper The Mook had a big ego, but Buddy’s ego couldn’t even fit into the room. I think it’s because he still has his balls. Literally. He was never fixed, so his view of himself is pretty grandiose.
We would lock horns every night. I would put my arm around Janma and Buddy would be in there a flash, impossibly hopping up on the sofa sideways. As I said, gazelle. He would jump between us and then look at Janma with those moppish dark eyes and beg to be petted.
Game over. The dog had won again. They always seem to. The only time I won was when it was bedtime. Buddy had his own home to go to, his dog crate. Initially, he thought this to be a grand idea. It was in the laundry room. But towards the end of the week I think Buddy began to rethink his accommodations and would cry whenever he was sent to his room for the evening.
Thankfully, it played on deaf ears. Neither one of us was going to give into Buddy, no matter how cute he was. He got the hint after a while and would slink back into his abode for the evening.
Eventually, it came time to part with Buddy, our grandchild in training. He went home Sunday with his real parents, who had returned from their Alaska cruise. Before they came, Buddy and I had one last crazy playtime. We played hide and seek in the bedroom and the hall, Buddy flying between the two spaces with rocket sled speed, not showing a bit of age.
Me, I was showing mine. I was down on my knees. When we were through, I tried to get up. It was not a pretty sight. It seems that I’m not able to get down on my haunches and pretend I’m a dog any longer.
Frankly, I was shocked. I’ve been led around on a leash for much of life and I’ve certainly been in the doghouse many times. I should be good at this.
I could see Buddy’s face. That little Yorkie was laughing at me. Sure, it sounded like wheezing from being out of breath, but I’m sure he was really laughing under his breath, what breath he was able to muster.
It was obvious who the top dog was here. Within a week, Buddy had made it clear he was in charge.
Best of all, I have demonstrated to my daughter that I can be trusted with my future grandogger, uh, granddaughter or grandson. I have proven that I am able to take care of her little ones, at least while they are one all fours and eating soft food. That should take me up to about the terrible twos, which is a good time for me to gracefully step aside from any grandchild. We all know how the terrible twos can be. No dog, not even a 13 year old Yorkie, can prepare anyone for that.
In the Emerald City, alone, “dog gone” it,
– Robb