I got my first taste of Chihuahua fever growing up. I had many favorite books, but the one that detailed the largest and smallest things in the world interested me greatly. On the cover, a giraffe, a lizard on a pencil and a brown Chihuahua puppy in a tea cup.
Commercials for Taco Bell fascinated me. My dogs never talked like that. Maybe only Chihuahuas from Mexico could talk. Around this time, I begged Dad to buy me a $5 “Taco Bell Dog” promotional toy at a booth at some pet fair we were at with my mother. My plush toy had a rose in its mouth, and when you squeezed it, it either said the famous catch phrase or “Te amo.”
Entering the 2000’s as a preteen, I brashly asked my parents, while driving through the parking lot of the local Target, if we could get a Chihuahua when Snowy, the Bichon Frise I had literally prayed for as a tiny child, passed away. My dad nearly burned the brakes. I didn’t mean it like that. I thought they didn’t want two dogs at one time again and maybe I could file my request before my big brother got to it first. Cue the first talk about responsibility. The older I get, the more I cringe at this immature foot-in-mouth.
Joining the full blown anarchy that is being a teenager, my need for a Chihuahua intensified as each celebrity I envied carried one or five of the tiny dogs in their giant Chanel purses. Cue the second talk about responsibility. I was not allowed to get the dog or the bag, but Mom did let me pierce my belly button.
As I went off to college, we made new friends as volunteers in a rescue group. One of our new pals was fostering a Chihuahua-mix named Tony Soprano. Much like his namesake, Tony was a rough and tumble. I didn’t know that the first time I met him, but for some reason he still let me nuzzle his face.
I began to look for my own dog as I moved into my first adult apartment, but was gifted a cat. Cairo is very dog-like, but he is not a dog, and last year he turned in his official “Dogcat” resignation, noting he will stay on staff as “Cat” but refused to take a salary decrease. I accepted and began to look for a dog.
A lot went in to my dog searching process, most are stories for other days. But I kept looking for those black and tan Chihuahuas. I liked their little eyebrows. I liked that they wore brown shoes on all feet. I liked their expressive ears and eager eyes.
Request after request for several types, colors and breeds of dogs, I was almost always too late or the dog wasn’t a fit for my needs. Though I didn't know it at the time, Mexicans apparently have a slang word that fits this "five minutes, five hours, forever" feeling, ahorita. It literally translates to "right now" but it almost never means right now. It usually means "soon" but sometimes means "never." I decided to keep trying.
That’s when I found an awkward little black and tan with a deer head in neighboring Forsyth County. I didn’t know what adventure I was about to go on when I pulled up to the Humane Society that Thursday after lunch to meet her.
After spending so much of my life curious about the tiny dogs with alien faces, here I was in an outdoor pen, in the middle of June, looking for a dog that could encompass all of my lifetime experiences into one tiny package.
As soon as I crouched down, she ran to me. She nuzzled her face into my lap and kissed my arms. She growled at the other dog in the pen to get away. “This one is mine!”
I was slightly hesitant to take her home – I don’t really do spontaneity and I thought I was just going to meet her that day – but instead I signed the papers, borrowed a slip lead and I took my very own Chihuahua home. Named her Smidge that weekend and began to introduce her to her new family: her brother the cat, her marshmallow dog sisters and her grand-paw-rents. Ahoriiiita.
It’s been a year since we took your freedom ride, Smidge. We’ve been through a lot together already. We almost lost your eye. You’re learning that you don’t have to defend yourself every second. You’ve made friends, family. You would do anything to please me, I can see it through the blue scar on your eye and in the thick slaps of your crooked tail against the floor. You are re-learning a lot of behaviors and are making amazing progress. It’s a struggle to be a “regular” dog, but you are imperfect, just like me, and we are together.
After all that time, after all of the childish begging only to be told ahorita by the universe, the Chihuahua of my little dreams was worth the wait.
Happy one year anniversary, Smidge. Here’s to a lifetime more.
