Gus, the Wonder Yorkie has come to believe that I am the source of all that is good, or at least the source of his food and water, and the daily home-made treat, and occasional chew toy. He loves me. If I am sitting, he is in my lap. He wants to be with me wherever I am, will follow me from room to room, and will dash ahead of me so that he can reach the bathroom before the door is closed, then lie patiently on the bath mat and wait, unless he can talk me into holding him.
He always helps me in the kitchen by hanging around under the cutting board to catch whatever I drop, then runs to the rug (being the aristocratic dog that he is, he prefers to eat in the dining area) where he sometimes eats it, sometimes leaves it till later. He has even been known to gobble down broccoli or peppers or lettuce. His favorite place in the kitchen is in front of the open dishwasher door when I am loading it. If there is a spatula or a spoon still holding remnants of dinner, he does his best to lick it clean. (Stop making that face. The water in the dishwasher is way hot enough to sterilize anything he licks.)
When I leave the house, he makes a big show of sitting obediently on the carpet where I tell him to wait, then, when he hears the car pulling into the gararge, runs back to that same spot, pretending he has been there all along. But he only stays there for the moment it takes for him to think he has fooled me. In a nano-second, he is running and jumping and turning in circles till I pick him up, as glad to see me as if I were the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes crew bringing a giant check with a promise of five-thousand dog bones a week for life.
Come bedtime he snuggles into the "nest" I make him by folding our comforter into a big pile, and gently snores for an hour or two, but soon he decides to move and tiptoes across the bed to a better spot: against the back of my legs, where my lap would be if I would just stop that silly sleeping thing and sit up so he could curl into in his usual spot. He makes up for the difference by pushing against me as tightly as he can, like a night time hug.
Who couldn't adore such a dog?
He does, however, have just one tiny flaw. When he is confronted with a beautiful woman, er, female dog, he forgets that he was neutered years ago and attempts to impress her by hiking his leg on the nearest wall or piece of furniture, or perhaps any purses he spots on the floor nearby. It does not impress the humans who own the wall or the furniture or the purse.
And so, when Gus goes visiting, he must suffer the humiliation of wearing a diaper. Not those tiny dog diapers that cost fifty dollars apiece, or thereabouts, and slide off at the slightest wiggle. No, Gus wears a a real baby diaper that wraps around his middle, covering any offending parts, and then on top of that, to make sure the diaper doesn't come off, because he is a very resourceful Yorkie, a onesie. Not a silly doggie dress, a real baby onesie, size nine months. The three tiny snaps at the bottom are perfect for holding it on him and still leaving room for his stump of a tail to hang out.
Here is Gus's picture in his onesie. If you are ever lucky enough to meet him, don't tell him I showed it to you. As you can see, he is embarrassed enough when he wears it.
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