Originally Published in the Philippine Star
A warning to all you parents out there who give in to their kid’s pleas for a pet: think first about who’s going to own who. Because, as sure as the sun rises in the east, it’s not you who’s going to do the owning. Mark my word.
It all started when my sons decided they wanted a Shih Tzu just like their cousins’. Admittedly adorable creatures, they awakened the whole ‘a boy and his dog’ longing in my children’s hearts. And dog lover that their father is, he gave in without much of a struggle. I wasn’t as certain but when my husband and sons decide on such a rarity as a common course of action, who am I to object?
She came to us at two months of age, a ball of white fur with a light brown band across her lower back and so small that you could hold her in the cup of two hands (or one if you’ve got large mitts). We knew we were in trouble when first PV began calling her our only daughter and then Bryan introduced her to everyone as his little sister. When I was referred to as her ‘mommy’, that clinched her place in our family.
Two years later she holds us in the palm of her furry paw. Problem is, she knows it. And has no qualms about using it to her advantage either.
We could not bear the thought of so tiny a puppy being by herself in the dark at night. So we agreed that we would keep her in our bedroom for the first month or so after her arrival. Well, when I eventually broached the question of whether we could move her downstairs, I received glares of disbelief and indignant protests in return. Needless to say, the idea has been shelved and will likely never see the light of day.
Parents of infants know whereof I speak when I mention the foibles of toilet training. Strangely enough, complaints from PV about our sons’ erratic potty habits started way before we could reasonably expect them to truly comprehend the need to go the bathroom to relieve themselves. Not so with his “little girl”. Mop or pick up after her we all did until she was mature enough to be properly trained but not a single bit of grousing did I hear from him about her accidents.
And my sons are hopeless at disciplining her. The very thought of raising our voices to scold her or taking a hand to her backside horrifies them, turns Bryan my supposedly sensible college-age son, into an empathetic puddle of useless goo and is guaranteed to reduce my doting nine-year-old Jonathan to tears of commiseration. Yet none of them have misgivings about one brother or the other being ripped a new one for misbehaving. Double standard anyone?
Not that PV is any less maudlin when it comes to her. Whereas we carefully count our centavos with regard to our grooming needs, he readily shells out cash to ensure that she always looks as pretty as a picture. We spend five hundred bucks for her regular shampoo, haircut and blow-dry. Okay, the fee includes a pedicure, brushing her teeth and a generous spritz of breath spray as well. Nonetheless, that’s comparable to what I pay when I visit a salon for the same amount of service (minus the teeth brushing and breath spray, of course). But while I worry about the cost of each trip to the parlor, he happily forks over money for her beauty treatment. So now our Shih Tzu is more fashionably coiffed than I am. Not to mention sports the latest in doggie scents—he bought her cologne, too, let me add.
I should get annoyed with all the attention and allowance she’s given by my menfolk. But I don’t; I can’t. Not when she cheerfully plops down on her belly so we can brush her coat and remains still even when we have to work out a stubborn tangle. Not when she comes scrambling out of wherever she’s settled herself or parks herself at the door at the mere sound of my voice. And certainly not when she follows me just about everywhere and shows one and all whose company she prefers the most.
She hops, not runs. Yips, not barks. And she will attack an inanimate object with all the ferocity of a lion cub, an effect somewhat ruined by her endearing stuffed toy appearance. Scratch or rub a particular area of her stomach and one hind foot or the other or both will do an imitation of Thumper the rabbit in the Disney classic Bambi. And, dear me, but she knows how to use her eyes. It’s unfair. Dogs shouldn’t be able to gaze soulfully at their humans and entice them into doing stuff against their feeble wills. Especially not dogs with long-lashed button eyes and pert little noses to match. My sons claim she looks like a baby Ewok, that teddy bear-like creature of Star Wars fame.
My husband sent pictures of her along with his latest email to a cousin currently residing in Texas in the USA. Said cousin, a bank executive, showed the pictures to his colleagues, all senior bank officers, and the reaction was one and the same: “Is she for real?” followed by “Aaawww, she’s adorable” and sundry versions thereof.
It’s a good thing Chibi can’t read else all the praise would further boost her already inflated ego. As it is, she already has us thoroughly dog-whipped and she hasn’t even had her first litter. Quite an impressive feat for a four-footed, non-verbal fur ball little more than half the size of my son’s gym bag.
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