As it is for most of us who call ourselves “big dog” or “small dog” people, the reasons for my preference seemed obvious to me. My large Rhodesian ridgeback, Bella, led the pack, even at the dog park. She carried an intriguing air of mystery that I thought came from instincts submerged, but not erased, by her Dallas address. Would she pounce, or play?
When I met the man I would eventually marry, he came with a rural address attached. I drove the moving van, but Bella set the example, quickly connecting with the rhythms of this wilder outdoor world. Every day, she explored and wandered. Mostly to keep up with her, I did too.
As my children were born, Bella charged into a protector role. She would even sideline an armadillo hunt if she felt a small human needed supervising. With age, she grew still more confident, and every creature in her orbit took note. I felt less sure as I tweezed my own gray hairs. What exactly was I chasing now? But my doubts couldn’t really take root with that dog strutting at my side.
After Bella passed away, I didn’t even consider another dog. But then we moved to Waco, where no wild animals or livestock roamed—I missed the birds, cattle, deer, even the drunk walk of the armadillos. In more populated areas, there are constant reminders of how much work human relationships can be. So perhaps it was also Bella’s easy companionship I missed. I realized that when I would look down to say, “Good dog,” I was affirming more than that—I meant good life.
The search started slowly. I visited our local rescue’s website to monitor big dogs as they came in. The staff described one my family and I wanted to meet as “too nervous” to be around kids. Another knocked over all the furniture in the visiting room, gracing me with a moment of realization: Our children were also going to keep getting bigger and rowdier, but our house would remain the same size.
One day, on a whim, I looked through the pictures of small dogs. I didn’t realize then that the posting for a litter of Shorkies had just been made that morning. Or that the pups pictured would never grow to be bigger than watermelons. All I knew was that they appeared to be the opposite of any dog I had ever wanted in my life. Even in the picture, there was a neediness. Each dog looked like it would get yippy when distressed. And there’s no way a brain sized for such a tiny body could hold information for long. Would it be trainable? Would the creature nip at my ankles all the livelong day, demanding attention? I suspected the worst, and yet.
And yet.
Some part of me—maybe the part that had finally stopped tweezing and opened the floodgates for the gray—connected. I filled out the application, and when the rescue called that afternoon, I said yes to the only female of the bunch. I had once selected the dog of my twenties because of what I admired and aspired to be. This unexpected choice of a small dog said, I can no longer pretend to know what might be coming next.
Our neighborhood in town is sleepy and has wide roads and little traffic. Even if people don’t know each other, they wave. But our new, small dog, whom we named Kleos, still managed to find herself a relentless foe—any vehicle that was a small SUV or larger. Which, in Texas, is most. No matter how many times one of those offending rides cruised by while we were on a walk, Kleos would erupt afresh. I would think back to Bella, how she would visually ice any animal she crossed. Both dogs were asserting themselves, but this display forced me to acknowledge the disturbance. What standoffs were needless? Which internal knots didn’t need to be tied?
That same persistence—thankfully at a lower decibel—still emerges when Kleos identifies an opportunity to receive love. Whereas Bella had known when to fold gracefully at your feet or wait for a good moment to insert herself, Kleos does not demur. Nor does she operate as though people always know what they need most. Someone on the sofa giving her the cold shoulder? Luckily every human comes with two sides, so she can hop over and tug at the other one. People forgetting to pet her? She races along at their feet until they relent and pick her up. She treats us all like rowdy kids who need to be reminded, Hey, no matter how big you get, you’ve still got time to love us little guys.
Then early last fall, an incident with a deer gave me pause. Even though we moved to town, we still return as often as we can to our little ranch house in the country. We were out there one morning, drinking coffee, when my husband spotted a brazen young buck watching us at a pretty close distance. Bella’s been gone so long, I don’t think of her all the time anymore, but immediately she came to mind—from the first whiff, she would have sprung into action, teaching that deer to push his speed if he wanted to survive.
Kleos was out in the yard. But whether because she had put on a scarf of maturity that told her this was out of her league, or the sweet limits of that pea-sized brain prevented her, she did not show any signs of noticing the large animal that had entered the scene. For a long moment, all of us sat still as we were—the deer, the full-grown but still miniature dog, my husband, and me.
Then the wind shifted. Our rooster crowed. Kleos gave up her game, or woke from her open-eyed nap, and started running full speed for the deer. Bless his heart, the buck did not react as one would expect to a ball of fur barreling toward him. He stayed put, wearing an expression I chose to interpret as incredulity: You’ve got to be kidding me—this thing is an animal too?
Kleos does not know how to carry the baggage of being judged or taken down a peg. For her, every moment is a fresh opportunity. However, when she neared the unmoving deer, she seemed as surprised as we observers were. She stopped short and then, most shockingly of all, remained quiet. The animals locked eyes. Then the deer did what he was made to do and galloped away gracefully. Kleos did as she was created to do and yipped, then sprinted behind on her four-inch legs, claiming whatever victory she could scrape together.
My husband, a creature who has never questioned his place in the world, laughed and kept on with his morning. I hung out a little longer with my coffee, thinking thankfully, Good dog. Good life. Bella, may you rest in peace. Kleos, may you rest in my lap. And may we all find ways to love whatever is here, now. Whether we have good reasons or not.