I feel like if I had to pinpoint the exact moment I went completely insane, I’d say it was the day I got a Yorkie.
It was after the loss of my beloved childhood dog Jade, a sweet (if slightly neurotic) maltese who lived to the ripe old age of 17. It wasn’t long before my family missed the pitter patter of puppy footsteps and the late-night cuddling that comes with having a dog.
We didn’t even mean for it to happen. We stopped at one of those awful pet stores with all the puppies locked in tiny pens, just taking a look around, when my mom locked eyes with this shivering, tiny thing standing up in a cage.
We took him into one of the bathroom stall- sized “play rooms,” and he immediately ran head first into the tiled wall.
I won’t lie to you, reader, it was love.
And that’s when we brought the little critter home and gave him an ironic and, frankly, assinine, name: Gluteus Maximus.
Max is not your typical Yorkie. He’s not very good at being a dog. His bark sounds like a small child clearing its throat. He likes to sit on the arm of my mom’s reclining chair like a gargoyle and he prefers to perch on my shoulder when being carried. He’s also got a slight Napoleon complex that has him lifting his leg across the fence dividing the big and small dog sections at the dog park.
If it’s not bad enough calling for “Maximus” at the park and having this barely-four-pound squirrel thing trot over, trying to stop him from making claim on every surface is pretty awful.
All his weird eccentricities aside, I still can’t get over that damn dog. I hate the fact that I live an hour away and only get to see him every few weeks. The tiniest part of me is afraid he’ll start loving my other family members more than me.
Excluding his slightly lazy (I prefer to call it “naughty,”) left eye and his obsessive- compulsive need to lick everything, he’s got these adorable, cherubic features that make him look like a living, breathing teddy bear. I’m that far gone that I call my dog “cherubic” and really mean it.
But, I can’t lie to you. Most nights at home, when he’s curled up on my shoulder sleeping or waiting up by the window for me to come home, I can’t help but think being crazy ain’t that bad.