I have a personal bias against toy dogs. In my opinion, a dog should have a substantial weight of at least forty pounds.

 

A dog should not have a fluffy or prancing appearance. It shouldn’t smell like perfumed sachets or be adorned with rhinestones. A dog should bear a name that befits its ancestral lineage from wolves.

 

A dog should never be treated as a mere accessory or substitute for a child. It is not a toy.

 

A dog is a serious and complex creature with its own depth, dimension, moods, and, yes, fangs.

 

During a period when I was renovating my house, suffocating amidst plaster and sawdust, I decided to take a break. I needed a temporary refuge from the chaos. That’s when I rented a room from a couple in my neighborhood who happened to own a Chihuahua.

 

Upon meeting Juan Carlos, the Chihuahua, he fearlessly approached me, staring me down and emitting a single bark that seemed to say, “Don’t even think of messing with me.”

 

I chuckled at the thought, realizing that he was merely one foot tall while I stood at six feet. I could have easily squashed him like a cupcake.

 

Nevertheless, Juan Carlos continued to fix his intense gaze upon me.

 

Perhaps he was a toy dog, but his spunky attitude earned him some points. Spunk matters in life. It can make a significant difference.

 

As I sat down and conversed with the dog’s owners, Juan Carlos walked over, contemplated my lap, and then leapt onto it, promptly falling asleep.

 

“That’s unusual,” the owners remarked. “He usually doesn’t like anyone.”

 

Looking down at Juan Carlos, I pondered the situation. You can forget it, I thought. You’re not really a dog, not even a semblance of one. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying it. But Juan sighed and stretched out his little legs in contentment. A decision had been made, rendering my wants and inclinations irrelevant.

 

In the following days, I observed Juan Carlos fearlessly confronting two greyhounds, pushing them against a tree. He seemed disturbed by their emaciated appearance and wanted them gone (though I might be projecting my own interpretation). He also approached a perplexed German shepherd, boldly informing her that she was trespassing and must leave. Surprisingly, he even befriended a Doberman who could have easily devoured him like a potato chip. Juan Carlos was a bundle of courage on four legs. And he didn’t yap; he barked, in a tiny but mighty voice.

 

I resisted my growing affection for him, as one fights against love and the inevitable heartache it brings. After all, Juan Carlos wasn’t my dog.

 

However, upon returning from my construction work, Juan Carlos was always there, waiting for me. He observed me as I took a bath, his eyes filled with fascination. He stared as I prepared pasta and eagerly jumped onto my lap as soon as I sat down. Before long, Juan abandoned his owners and started sleeping with me. I would wake up in the morning with his body on my chest, his little eyes patiently waiting for me to awaken so he could faithfully accompany me throughout the day.

 

It was a difficult time in my life, one that I hope will be the last of my severe bouts of depression. But as life often unfolds its own plans, sometimes a small thing, like a pair of sympathetic eyes looking back at you, can make all the difference.

 

I was devoid of love during that period, while the owners were engaged in a never-ending passion fest. To make matters worse, their bedroom was located directly above mine. As their cries and moans descended upon me like boulders from a landslide, I would cover my ears and bury myself under a quilt. Juan Carlos would always slide under the covers with me, and together we would pant in the oxygen-deprived air, akin to miners trapped in a cave-in. Eventually, their fervor would subside, allowing us to emerge and breathe freely once again.

 

Hell isn’t other people; it’s other people engaging in mind-blowing intimacy while you come to terms with the realization that you’re an old man, and paradise has bid you farewell.

 

The months passed, and the time came for me to move on. Juan Carlos sat in the same spot where I first encountered him, watching me as I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and hurriedly left. I steadied myself and bid him farewell with a pat. Damn, I knew I was going to miss that dog.

 

Six months later, I was asked to babysit him. “Juan Carlos loves you, and it’ll only be for a few weeks…”

 

That was a colossal mistake.

 

Two weeks with Juan Carlos were enough for our bond to deepen. I carried him everywhere: to the shops, while gardening—he was always by my side. I cherished the sound of his little claws on the wooden floors, his unique bark when he sensed danger, and the way he strutted around the house as if he were the king and I his most loyal subject.

 

He slept on me or beside me. He was a compact factory of muscle, blood, and sinew, emanating carbon dioxide and humidity, creating his own distinct scent, and producing his peculiar symphony of sighs, grunts, and jangles.

 

Then, the fateful day arrived—the knock on the door. As they took Juan Carlos away, he kept turning back to look at me, waiting for me to rectify this mistake.

 

I sat down, shattered and exasperated with myself. It only took me two weeks to fall in love with a creature, sometimes even less. It used to be men, but now it seems like anything with lungs and legs can capture my heart. Legs aren’t even a prerequisite. I could envision myself as an old man, covered in filth, scattering bird food on the floorboards, calling out to countless pairs of staring eyes that it’s dinnertime—hoping they would eat up while Daddy goes to bed. I imagined dragging pennies to the bank and lugging sacks of millet seed home, living in a world where people were replaced by animals.

 

Real people, the ones who truly matter, love Chihuahuas because they understand that Chihuahuas are not mere toy dogs. That perception was a mistake that needs correction.

 

A Chihuahua is a twelve-inch-tall pit bull. Treat them with firmness and directness, respect and care, and they will reciprocate that respect. Treat them as caricatures, and they will snap at your fingers and growl ferociously. Can we blame them? All of us want to be acknowledged for who we truly are, rather than being mistaken for what others desire us to be.