||Five years old|
three years ago, something frightened me in the night and I started
thinking about getting a dog. I went to the animal shelter, intending to just
look at dogs and think about if I really wanted one. The lady in charge of
small dogs asked me which ones interested me. She then put me in a room and
brought them in and left them with me one-by-one. They were all nervous and
ignored me, wanting to get back to her.
Then, she brought in a dog I had not selected. She said she just wanted me to
see him, and she left him with me. The only difference between the other dogs
and this one that I named Mitt, is that Mitt got into my lap to anxiously
stare at the door and wait for his familiar human.
I was told that he was brought in with his purebred mother and the no-kill
shelter took her, because she was considered adoptable. He had a lot of hair
loss on his back and tail because he had had a bad flea problem. He also came
to the shelter needing a minor surgery and they took care of that, and the
flea problem, too.
It hasn't been perfect. He's not completely house broken and doesn't think he
should ever have to get his little paws wet so he is completely resistant to
going outside during or after rain. He can do all kinds of tricks like sit,
down, beg, leave it, off, and stay. But the command "come" generally gets me
a look that says, "I don't see why I should." A treat makes all the difference.
Mitt sleeps with me - I put a bench at the end of the bed so he can jump up
safely. He barks most of the time when he should, and since the vet told me
his fifteen pounds (6.8kg) were too much, he has slimmed down to an attractive thirteen pounds.
He's a pretty good dog. He can do basic commands, as I said, and gets along
well with the cats. He does a good job of barking at strangers and, really,
he's very cute!
We get along well. I think he was a good choice for me. Perfection is overrated.