Who, on God’s verdently green earth, decided to beed yorkshire terriers? In case you are not familiar with the breed, allow me to expound for a moment.
The yorkshire terrier originates from England, evidently (God save the Queen), and displays a coat similar in coloring to a rottweiler and in texture to a silky something or other. This particularly small specimen weighs somewhere in the neighborhood of 5 pounds, and bears resemblance to a very dirty mop in the hands of a custodian on speed when awake. When the dog is awake, that is.
Anyway, my wife and I recently acquired such a creature, and since the time of her acquisition I must say our lives have changed somewhat. I rise early in the morning, not to the gentle sound of a silent home, but to a rather obtrusive yipping. Our puppy’s cries could be summarized by the sounds of nails on a chalkboard, an infant’s wail, and the sound of a child beginning his first lesson with the violin. Needless to say, it is somewhat begrudgingly that I rise to take her on her morning trip to the out of doors.
She is not, of course, all pain and suffering for her owners. There is nothing quite like a puppy to make one’s life feel more full. A puppy sees only the very best in its master, which is both refreshing and sobering. It can be scolded for piddling on the mat for a minute straight, and have nothing more to say than a wag of the tail. It apparently has no end of love for those it chooses to love. This quality, of course, makes it vitrually impossible for one to stay mad at the little dustmop for long.
But anyway, back to the original question: Who on this very green and affable creation decided it would be a good idea to create such a creature? By create, of course I mean breed, but semantics-shmantics. The question remains.
I am forced to conclude the following: Someone, probably a duke or baroness with a rather dank old castle or estate, must have had a need for a rather small kanine to create small puddles, chase feet, and be remarkably pleasing to the eye, all while emitting sounds well within the boundaries of the terms “severe” and “vexing.” Either that, or the runts of the litters of bigger dogs found one another attractive for several generations in a row.
Regardless, my wife and I have one now. Her name is Roxi, by the way. I can’t help but like the little rapscallion, with her bright eyes and needle teeth. Like I said somewhere up above, probably in the paragraph where your mind started to wander, the love she shows me is just too much to not return a little. She brings joy that only a puppy can bring.
I wish I was the person my dog thinks I am.
-unknown
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