I grew up around big(ish) dogs: the golden and labrador retrievers of the world. But my view of the dog world changed when, at the ripe age of seven, I came face to chest with an Irish Wolfhound who served as both the draw and mascot of the mountain shop in which I found myself. I could nearly walk beneath the hound without stooping, and I fell in love immediately. I can’t say he loved me in return, but he stoically allowed me to slather love all over him.
My love immediately extended to all large dogs (except those that drool; which is a limitation, alas, that continues to this day), and I’m convinced I still might shuffle off this mortal coil petting something I shouldn’t.
The love I found in the mastiffs to the danes, however, did not extend to the small breeds. I’d found them less than tolerable from their tendency to shake or attack or pee seemingly unprovoked. As time went on, I met lovely versions of breeds from chihuahuas to bishon frises and my distaste turned into tolerance, but I could still take or leave them. Until Snowball came to live with me.
His human mom passed away, and the fact that he was eighteen, nearly blind and deaf, and didn’t have the use of his back legs meant he wasn’t long for this world and wouldn’t find a new home; he was going to be put down. As long as he had some life left in him, I couldn’t let it happen, and I took him in. I dog proofed my home to ensure an aged Maltese would be safe, and he joined me for the last of his time.
I found myself caring for him and worrying about him when I had to step out of the house for the shortest of times. I had him into the vet two or three times to make sure we could do what we could for him without being overly invasive and with the understanding he was near end of his life. Simply put, I wanted to give him the best life I could in the time he had left. After a month, he decided he’d had enough.
In that month, he wormed his way so far into my heart, I wept as he passed away in my arms. And thus my love of little dogs was born.
It took months before I found Tucker. Another little Maltese with joint issues and epilepsy. It seems I have a soft spot for medical cases as well. His personality is quite different than Snowball, but he’s wormed himself into my heart in much the same way. He’s seven, and I expect and hope he’ll be with me far longer than Snowball was.
I hope the lesson I’ve learned from my experiences with the big and little dogs of the world is that love can be found in surprising places; ones that may be completely unexpected.