Candace Karu

Dog Daze

Candace5 Comments

Caution: The following post contains painfully adorable pictures of very small dogs. I will not be offended if lovers of large dogs or those of you who find dog people perplexing decide to skip this post entirely.

The more I see of man, the more I like dogs.  ~Mme. de Staël

When I lost my sweet little Canine-American companion, Meggy, three years ago, I thought it would take years for me to even consider getting another dog. Meggy was unique, for her breed and for her species. She was quiet and dignified, calm and oddly aloof, a woman of extremely discerning tastes in people and other dogs. Meggy did not suffer fools gladly. She had a great 15-year run and I was heartbroken when she died.


Meggy and me.

I mourned her for over a year and told myself that a new puppy was out of the question. Work, family and friends kept me in a state of perpetual motion, a state that left little time for doggie lust.

Then the siren song of online puppy porn called to me, luring me with its irresistible pictures of cocked heads, large eyes and tiny paws. Without much thought I signed up at a Yorkshire Terrier rescue site. That was the beginning of the end. Because the rescue people never got back to me, but I had opened the door and stepped through to the dog side.

I am living proof that people are attracted to dogs they most resemble. Could I be any more of a cliche? Like the Yorkshire terrier breed in general, I am compact, stubborn, focused, and demanding. We share other characteristics as well. We're both independent, feisty, and high energy. Yorkies are can be bossy and single-minded. Me too. I even have Yorkie-colored hair. In spite of, or maybe because of, some of their more challenging characteristics, it is a simple fact that God loves a terrier. And so do I.

And so, fully aware that these dogs are also known as Yorkshire Terrorists, I continued to troll online for my perfect pooch. When I saw this picture on line, I knew I had to drive to Skowhegan, Maine get that little man.


And, reader, get him I did. As well as his brother.


As we crossed the line into Cape Elizabeth, T-Bone and Dunkin became Murphy and Duncan. And we became a family.


We've had our challenges, my boys and I. At six months Duncan was diagnosed with an anomoly called atlantoaxial luxation. His prognosis was grim, with little hope offered by the veterinary neurologist.


Evidently, Duncan did not get the memo. He seems to be thriving with no real medical intervention. Every day with him is a gift. He is, however, kind of a pain in the ass. And I mean that in the most loving way. His brother, sweeter and more social, is also no day at the beach. Their presence belies a combined weight of just over 10 pounds.

As they approach their second birthday, I cannot imagine life without them. And so I share with you a pictorial history of the men in my life.


Duncan & Murphy - the early days.


You know if you touch my hot dog I have to kill you, right?


Duncan is always cold, hence the outerwear inside.


Murphy is ever on the alert for bad guys.



Halloween. Let the rejoicing commence.


Snaggle-Tooth and Smiley enjoying a little porch time.



Let it be known throughout the land, the boys love their toys.