So I consider myself a dog person. Kind of. Had dogs when I was a kid, but my parents would never have dreamed of having them in the house. Then, when Sylvia and I got married, her dog was part of the package, an overweaned bitch answering to the name of Lady Chanel (the dog that is). To unbiased observers Lady Chanel was strange looking to say the least.
She was not quite what my wife had anticipated when she purchased a purebred poodle pup. It became evident as Lady Chanel grew older that the chihuahua next door must have had a contribution to the preserved poodle gene bank, because Lady Chanel had a face and ears that were a cross between a rat and a bat. Poo-Chee, or Chi-Poo, call it what you will. It was unusual. People sometimes found her cute.
Alas, Lady Chanel died after 16 great years of life and now her ashes are in a box over the mantelpiece. Time went on, and as you have no doubt anticipated, there was a clamor for another dog. It was my eleven year old son mostly who wanted one. But I was not averse to it. I am on record as saying, "Let's get a real dog this time."
Sylvia finally came out of mourning and she agreed to get my son his dog. The two of them went off to the animal shelter to make their choice. This happened while I was at work. They made their pick, and then--the rules of the animal shelter required this--I had to go to in person and signal my approval to the staff at the shelter; you see, they don't want dogs coming back just because you find out when you get home that Dad doesn't like the pick.
Well, Dad didn't like their pick. "Another ugly dog," I believe were my exact words. By this time, my son's heart was set on Julia, for such was the prospective adoptee's name. Out of my son's hearing I asked Sylvia if she couldn't get him to pick another dog. She confessed that she also was not that excited about Julia; she was predisposed to a perky chihuahua called Buster, while I favored a newly arrived pup--Charles was his name--who was engaging, playful, and promised to grow well past chihuahua height. A real dog in other words. All the time we were at the shelter, Buster and Charles were at the doors of their cages, pushing through the wire, anxious to join our family, tails wagging like weed whackers.
Meanwhile, the aforementioned Julia sat in the deepest recesses of her cage, not coming anywhere near the wire door. She was a cross between chihuahua (Ay Chihuahua, otra ves!) and dachshund. She did not smile. And another thing--she limped. Her left hind leg was damaged. We were told she'd been found bloodied and scared, perhaps thrown out of a car. The shelter had treated her wounds, spayed her, given her her shots, and now, after a few weeks of being there, she was good to go. So Julia came home with us, despite my unspoken reservations.