Actually, upon reflection I concur with Lut C- he is too cute to be called the Dawg. And though he will grow out of his current puppy tininess, he will never be a particularly large animal. Here in the House o'Mare, we find ourselves frequently referring to him as "Little Guy". Little Guy! Littttttleee Guuuuy! And up he toddles, waggy waggy waggy. I have keep reminding E. not to overdo it with the nicknames, as the puppy will actually need to learn his real name.
As far as what type of dog he is, isn't it so much more fun guessing? I'll keep dropping you wee hints- Little Guy is not a terrier. He's a hound, of a breed designed for hunting rabbits. Like a latte, the breed comes in three sizes. LG is the smallest coffee.
Not that he'll be doing bunny-terrorising under my watch, if I can help it. I did take him to the vet the other day to have him checked over, and as he was sitting there, pink ears glowing angelically in the sunlight, a girl walked in carrying something in a sort of plastic bag thing.
"Hello," the receptionist said, "Is that the bunny?"
And Little Guy's ears twitched. Hmmm, delicious wwwabbits.
One thing I've immediately noticed since his arrival is how sociable a dog forces you to become. Simply being out and about the neighbourhood brings me into contact with all sorts of, ah, interesting people. I'm generally quite shy and a bit reclusive by nature, so it's a slight shock to the system. Little Guy generates a fair amount of interest wherever we go, with attendant cooing and patting. Understandable, given he is a contender for World's Cutest Puppy. It's all very pleasant, up to a point. I have had to fend off a number of rather grabby children, all of whom want to hold/pat/cuddle him with slightly too much enthusiasm; or in the case of one small insistent boy, to suddenly wrap their grubby mitts around the puppy's neck. Noooooooo.
Also yesterday I found myself embroiled in an odd discussion with a man who was primarily concerned with whether I had seen any Pakistani oil barges sailing up the river in recent weeks. Little Guy patiently sat on my shoe for a bit and then got bored and began eating the cuff of my jeans, forcing me to hop unbecomingly about trying to extract myself from both tiny but fierce jaws and the conversation.
Plus, what is with people asking me how much I paid for my dog? Do folks do this in America? It's the way they say it, so bluntly. "How much did that cost you, then?", as if Little Guy is a sort of animated handbag. It makes me feel all squirmy and uncomfortable. Besides, what some people evidently fail to appreciate it is that the basic purchase price of the puppy pales in comparison with the subsequent unchecked spurting of vast sums of money from the artery of my wallet. I should have just developed a cocaine habit and been done with it.
Now if you'll excuse me, there's unseemly display of cute puppy tummy going on over there on the no-longer pristine living room rug (my eyes!)- somebody needs to be tickled. I'll try to take a picture if he'll hold still for two seconds.
Now with 100% more tummy.