Tiny Dog Stories

Family Mantra

My husband named him Gunter, not after Gunter Grass, the Nobel Prize-winning novelist, but a Springfield, MA bakery.

He was the runt of a litter of eight Pug/sumo wrestlers. His stout, fawn-colored siblings had tightly curled tails and furrowed brows that seemed to ask the perpetual question, “What?”

Gunter weighed one pound. He was black, his eyes turned outward, and his tail stuck out like half a parenthesis.

Once Gunter snapped at his veterinarian, who said, “Pugs, they don’t like to be messed with.” This has become our family’s mantra when things don’t make sense in the human world.—Carole Lambert

Grace on Four Legs

He sits hunched over in his wheelchair

A steel rod where his leg used to be

His razor face puffs on a cigarette butt

Outside the door of a matchbox motel room

Seemingly unapproachable

Until the white dog appears

Tail twitching

Anticipating

A new friend to be made

His countenance softens

"Come here puppy"

She approaches

Ears and tail at half-mast

Caring nothing of his appearance

Or demeanor

He talks to her like a precious child

And she becomes just that.

—Tim McHenry

A Masterpiece

Pooka came from a farm in Chaparral.  Dad and I almost snatched one of the lively pups bouncing around us when the owner presented Pooka, sporting Brillo pad hair, a possum tail, beady eyes, and tiny ears. I secretly wondered if she was all dog. I blurted, “Just what I want!” The lady, caught off guard, responded, “She is?” Relieved, she handed me the pup. Dad laughed, shaking his head while I embraced Pooka. She developed a luxurious coat, a pleasure to touch. Her ears blossomed. Her eyes became loving orbs. Her tail plumed into a masterpiece. Pooka became glorious.—Joyce Whiteside

Turn Down Service

Our 13-year-old Maltese, Sophie, realized that every night I take a shower and then get in bed. For more years than we can remember, each night while I’m in the shower, Sophie turns down the bed comforter to the end of the bed so I can get in. She’s only 12 pounds; this is a lot of work. Sophie has never missed an evening.—Maryjane Rocker

I’ve Never Seen This Day Before (To my Lily-pad)

I’ve never seen this day before

You didn’t greet me at the door

The sun came up, the day went on

The birds in the trees sang their songs

The news was told, traffic went by

No one but me wondered why

I’ve never seen this day before

The world should stop, I swore

For this day was missing someone

Someone very special, you see

But no one even noticed

No one other than me

This day was missing someone

As I myself am too

The someone that is missing

Is none other than you

—Callie Rickard.