My 11-year-old has a four-pound Teacup Chihuahua. People see her and ask, "Is she a puppy?" At this point, she's usually growling, with fur up, assuming the spirit of a Bull Mastiff. "No," we say. "She's fully grown." But don't tell her what they said. She is four pounds of Tuffff. One "f" for every pound. A salesperson who knocked on our door once confused her for a squirrel. A beloved friend calls her a rodent. Another "The Rat Dog." But make no mistake. She is beautiful and tough and the biggest personality in our house of seven. Friends ask, "Doesn't she get underfoot and stepped on a lot?" "No," I reply. "She knows how to dodge the people who carelessly fail to see her."
Pursuing a writing career often makes me feel like Chloe, our four-pound ChiWowWow. Small, overlooked, but full of spunk and value if given a second look. Except I don't bite. Usually.
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