Love of My Life

I've been a little worried about Che this week. That would make my husband laugh, because I'm generally a little worried about Che most of the time. But Small Dog has definitely been under the weather, or dealing with an existential crises, or plagued by fears regarding the state of the union.

To whit: he has been hiding under the server in the kitchen, just kind of staring out at us in a brooding fashion. Picture Heathcliffe, if Wuthering Heights was set in a kennel. Wednesday he would not eat his breakfast, even when I hand-fed him.

(Yes, I said hand-fed. Because he carries my heart in his tiny paw, that's why.)

Yesterday he was jumping up and down in typical Chihuahua fashion. Those in the know realize that this can reach heights slightly in excess of three feet, depending on the Chi. Considering that he's less than one foot tall, that makes him the Michael Jordan of the canine world. It also means that he can get hurt if he lands badly. Which he does, on occasion. And did, yesterday afternoon.

My immediate response was something along the lines of, "Oh, poor schweetie, did ooo hurt oooself? Let Mommy see..." At which, Che began limping around the room, whimpering softly, looking up at me with melting dark eyes, agony emanating from every fibre of his being.

Yes, folks, I know I was played. Yes, I am aware that if this dog falls in front of my husband, he jumps right back up and goes on with his business. Yes, I am aware that I am, as we say in my house, a first-class sucka.

But what am I gonna do? I've only been in love a couple of times, and this is possibly my grand passion. Scott knows it, Small Dog knows it, life goes on. You can't help who you love, as they say. It just happens that I fell in love with a short, semi-balding fatty who will grow old far too quickly and leave me. This honestly breaks my heart whenever I think about it.

The funny thing is, when Scott suggested we drive out to Somerset to look at a Chihuahua puppy I wasn't that interested. I wanted a dog, but a Chihuahua? Come on. But OK, it'll be a nice drive; I'll try to keep an open mind.

Even when we got there and I saw Che for the first time, I just wasn't that impressed. He had bald spots (which never went away); I was convinced it was mange. He stank. Really, really stank. He was a greedy feeder. He had scabs on his ears.

This was NOT the puppy of my dreams.

Scott, in fact, was Che's saving grace. My husband insists to this day that I was looking for a baby-substitute, that my nesting instincts were in overdrive, and that was his reasoning behind choosing a Chi. Maybe he's right, who knows?

So whether it was an indefinable something he could see in the tiny puppy, a desire to remove him from the somewhat dicey circumstances in which we found him, or the low low bargain price they were asking --- probably closest to the truth, but let's not judge --- I found myself riding home with a small, smelly baby-substitute in a cardboard box on my lap.

Dismayed is not the word.

Then, on the drive home, something happened. I can't explain it, and I probably wouldn't want to analyze it too much, to be perfectly honest. But gazing down into that box, I started to fall in love. And by the time we got home, I almost didn't even want Scott to touch him. Because Che was mine.

And is, to this day. Sure, he likes Scott; sometimes he even prefers being with him over being with me. But I think that's because he knows I'm his slave, and he just doesn't get to hang with my husband that much. Both the dogs know to run to the kitchen when Scott goes in, because he's the one who makes the food, and because he is a slob and drops stuff on the floor frequently. (They don't even blink when I go to the kitchen. The only thing I do in there is make tea; even the dogs recognize a lack of culinary skill when they see it.) But there's no denying that Che knows who to turn to when he's not feeling well, when he needs to feel like the big dog.

Science may debate whether or not animals feel love, but for me the debate was over before it began. When the little blast furnace is curled up under a blanket beside me, grumbling at the world, I can't help but believe that my soul mate exists. He just chose the form of a dog.