Me vs. The Chihuahua -or- There Are Strange Things Afoot At The Taco Bell
I’ve done some questionable things in my life. OK, some of them were downright awful. But I’ve moved forward and accepted the fact that there will be a special place in Hell waiting for me. The wait ended May 1st, 2016.
It was a crisp and clear spring morning. My wife and I took the kids up to Wasaga Beach to the spend the weekend with my In-Laws for the weekend. I vividly recall my wife telling me she was going out for a bit. Of course I figured she was off to do some early garage saling until I saw something that sent a 50,000 volts of electricity down my spine. She had a dog carrier in her left hand. Not just any dog carrier. It was a small dog carrier!
Anyone who knows me well can tell you that I have an affinity for big dogs. Big, loveable, beastly, easy-going dogs. The kind you can have WWF-style wrestling matches with on the living room floor. They can also tell you that I’m the complete opposite when it comes to small breeds. Nothing against them, I just don’t prefer them. Period!!!
Several weeks prior to the Wasaga Beach excursion, my wife and I had a brief, off-and-on and somewhat unilateral “discussion” about getting another dog. I figured the cat and big dog we already had we’re sufficient. It’s very Feng Shui. My wife was of the opinion that a small dog would interact with our kids better than Guinness, our 100-pound Bernese Mountain Dog, would. I was of the opinion that even discussing it was redundant as I was dead-set against having another dog.
So, off she went with li’l dog carrier in hand. “Don’t come back with a dog!” I called after her. About an hour and a bit had passed and I got the call. I wasn’t quite sure, due to a crappy cellular connection, what she was saying but most of the words I could hear alluded to her having “rescued” (so ironic to call it that) a Chihuahua from a nearby shelter. I could barely speak I had so much bile in my throat. To be quite honest I don’t even remember much of the conversation other than she was on her way home with… it. “What’s it’s name?” my father-in-law inquired. I muttered back, “If it’s a Chihuahua it can only be named “Precious” or “Princess”. Soon after, my wife walked in the door with… wait for it…
Now, I’m a pretty smart guy as far as guys go. I know very well how to pick my battles. And this was one battle I was definitely NOT going to win. I swallowed my rage and suppressed the mental imagery of me drop-kicking “Precious” into the next time zone. I saw how my kids took to it. They instantly fell in love. That was its saving grace.
I will say without a trace of hyperbole, I’ve no, nor will I ever have a, love of small dogs. Although I begrudgingly accept this undersized Mexican woodchuck into our house (who my wife and kids have renamed “Penny”), I live in silent protest by refusing to walk it, clean up after it or feed it. I mean c’mon!! It’s damn eyes are three quarters on the outside of it’s head!! It’s a monstrosity! A Harry Potter reject!!
In the end, my kids have a new pet, my wife got her way (once again) and I have Mexico’s answer to Yoda sleeping under my armpit every night. Lucky, lucky, LUCKY me.
But she makes my kids happy. ‘Nuff said!