A couple of years ago, another fashion trend arrived in our country: the Yorkshire Terrier. No one is indifferent to this breed—they're either madly loved or hated. I've always disliked dogs—shaggy, mean, and smelly. And then one fine day, he (or she) appeared before me—a Yorkshire Terrier in all its glory. The haughty, regal look he bestowed on everyone captivated me at first sight.
It took me nine months (a rather symbolic amount of time) to make the crucial decision to get a dog. During this time, I read a wealth of literature on training, feeding, and care, as well as heartwarming stories from happy Yorkshire Terrier owners. The last few months, before I picked up the dog from the breeder, were the hardest – I was eager to get her, start caring for her, training her, and playing with her. There was a sense of emptiness in the house, as if a piece of it were missing. It was especially painful to look at the still-unoccupied dog bed – it had been purchased, of course, in advance.
And finally, the happy day arrived. I was prepared for anything—the heart-rending cries of the puppies, the miserable mother fighting for her babies, the tears and wet puddles. I was waiting for one single puppy who would see me, reach out, and become my most loyal friend. But things turned out completely differently… Instead of just one, all three puppies joyfully greeted me, and no instructions like jingling keys or seeing who wags their tail first were needed. The choice was quite simple—a girl, and a bit larger.
I can't say my Greta (that's what we named the dog) was all that worried about the move. After a couple of minutes in the car, she started looking around, sniffing, and climbing everywhere she could. She entered the apartment like she owned the place, sniffing every nook and cranny first, and immediately marked the toilet spot, which remains one to this day.
At first, she was the sweetest little creature, a little hairy human standing on her hind legs and happily wagging her tail. Obedient, attentive, patient, and unobtrusive. At first… By four months old, that is, two months after she moved in with us, this sweet girl gradually began to turn into a cute monster. You want to brush me? And I'll pee on the carpet! You won't share your food? And I'll pull it out of your mouth! You want to punish me? And I'll bite your feet!!! You won't go to bed? I'll come running and bark until you do!
Over time, she figured out who to behave with and how, and who to get revenge on. For example, if I was worried about puddles on the carpet, she'd make them right in front of me, with a demonstrative “Woof!” She also knew that scratching my head at night with her claws was completely ineffective—I wouldn't get up anyway—but with Mom, this trick worked like a charm. She had to get up five or six times a night—to get a bone, a cracker, or some water. Her uncontrollable love of green bones was especially annoying; they were a real pain to find at 2 a.m.!
One day, I heard the dog moaning pitifully. A terrible thought flashed through my mind: “She's dying…” Jumping up in an instant, I ran toward the sound and saw this: the puppy sitting and whining on the edge of the table—it turns out we've decided to conquer a new peak! It was a mystery to us why she began spending more and more time in the kitchen until we discovered a huge shortage of crackers and bagels from the vase. It was precisely for these that Greta climbed onto the table.
A particularly funny incident happened one evening. The whole family had already gone to bed, and I was dozing. Suddenly, I felt something moving very quietly across my bed, coming up to my head, sniffing, and suddenly starting to pull my earplugs (soundproofing earplugs) out of my ear with a paw. Without moving or opening my eyes, I asked, “How can I help?” The puppy got scared, ran like a bullet to her bed, lay down, and pretended to be asleep for a long time. When I asked, “What's that?” she looked up in confusion, as if to say, “What about me? I've been asleep for a long time…” I should note that earplugs turned out to be her second passion after green seeds.
With each passing day, the puppy grew more demanding and brazen. Greta would walk all over her owner, nip at her to stop her from interfering with her business, or even climb into her food dish. She would spend an hour every day running around the apartment, barking for no apparent reason—apparently exercising her vocal cords. All this, you say, due to a lack of training? Naturally! Take an inexperienced owner who has never held a dog in their life, add skillful manipulation and the puppy's intelligence, add the beauty and charm of a Yorkshire Terrier—and you get a contented dog, brazenly clinging to its owner's neck. And don't forget, for dessert, the lack of consistency in training methods—without it, there's no other way.
Am I complaining? Probably not. After all, I raised her the best I could, and I suspect the way I wanted. She'll be four this summer. Over the past six months, she's matured, become wiser, calmer. Now she barks exclusively at neighbors and strange noises, and pounces on the mop. She makes sure her dinner doesn't burn and calls for the phone. She wakes me up for work in the mornings, and at the appointed time. True, she still demands a bone, but now only when she has one. In the mornings, she licks her, offers her belly for scratches. Sometimes she even shares a cracker.
I don't know whether I'm a master or a slave to my Yorkshire Terrier. Perhaps we have a partnership—you respect my interests, and I respect yours. One step to the left, one step to the right—war. But if you respect each other's boundaries, life is not only tolerable but also quite happy. After all, having a dog in the house, no matter how mischievous, is always a joy.
