My 8-pound
Yorkshire terrier, Chopper, is the most untrainable, stubborn, and occasionally
annoying dog I have ever lived with. The
jury is out on whether he is cute, with his enormous ears that sometimes spread
out turning him into a Yoda-looking creature with tufts of hair on the pointed
ends.
After five years of being tempted
with doggy treats, chicken, and steak, he refuses to go outside through a
perfectly lovely doggy door that swings open to a perfectly lovely grass
yard. He won’t do it. He prefers a pad indoors, the stretch of
weeds down the block, or the carpet in the basement.
His littermate brother, Griswald, has no problem with the doggy door,
popping in and out all day.
On a summer
day before we get out of our driveway, Chopper often sits down, creating tension
in the leash, and like a furry, long-eared mule, this tiny critter with two-inch
stubby legs dares me to drag him to the curb and continue our walk. He most likely heard a locust and expects
all of us to wait while he hunts for his favorite snack. After clamping his teeth together and
imprisoning his prey, Chopper proudly holds up his head and allows us to
continue our walk, the insect madly buzzing inside his mouth. At some point,
he chomps down and finishes his snack.
Later on, I find lacy, iridescent locust wings that he has coughed
up on the kitchen tile.
Chopper’s
independent, stubborn nature also creates a challenge with commands. He ignores “stay” when I open a door to the
basement and soars down the steps, yipping and running wildly around the pool
table like a mad monkey and charging off into the downstairs bedroom—another
preferred, adopted bathroom of choice.
He doesn’t always “stop” when barking and yips and yaps at squirrels,
birds, joggers, bicyclists, my piano playing, the doorbell, the garbage trucks, and
the neighbors when they are trying to enjoy their pool.
Chopper is
also bipolar—sweet one moment grooming his brother’s ears and then later, without
warning, he begins a deep-throated growl.
He dons a demonic, red-eyed glare and begins creeping toward his brother,
snarling with vampire-bat fangs, and then attacks Griswald who was sleeping
peacefully on the sofa.
And yet . . .
on my
most unlovable, ugly days, he greets me with a multitude of kisses on
my toes and ankles when I walk into a room, teaching me the importance of loving the unlovable. I guess I’m a little stubborn too because I
refuse to send him on to another home.
In fact, during his calm moments, I often look into the adoring brown
eyes of my Yoda-mule- monkey-vampire-bat of a dog, pat him on the head, and say
“Good boy.”
--Elder C. Burr
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