"Loving the Unlovable" by C. Burr

Chopper hopped in my suitcase when he was a puppy (2012)

        My 8-pound Yorkshire terrier, Chopper, turned 13 in March 2025.  He is nearly blind and can't hear me when I stand behind him and call his name.  I wrote the following essay in 2017:

We love our little dog, Chopper, but he is the most untrainable, stubborn, and occasionally annoying dog I have ever tried to train.  The jury is out on whether he is cute, with his enormous ears that 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 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 leave our driveway, Chopper often sits down, creating tension on the leash. 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, I find lacy, iridescent locust wings 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 cease barking on command 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 suppose I’m also a little stubborn, as I refuse to send him 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

First published on 10/17/2017; edited on 05/07/2025 and posted on the writer's blog: CDBurr

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