I was never much of a small-dog person. Maybe because my great uncle had a Jack Russell will razor-sharp teeth. My granny had something similar, living up to the name of Nipper. We were a “big-dog” family. There was a Labrador in the house for much of my childhood. Chieftain was born in the kitchen when I was three and died when I was 17. He’d gone doddery at that point, and we brought him to the vet to be placed into the humane long sleep. At school the next day his golden hairs were still on my uniform. He was a great dog.
Small dogs, to me, were yippy and argumentative. They could turn on you for looking at them wrong. I held a particular disdain for little curly white dogs. It’s unfair, I know, to paint them all with the same brush, but when I picture a little white dog all I see is a river of eye snot, one snaggle tooth hanging from the roof of its mouth and the aura of an animal that died six months ago but is holding on out of spite. I will say, however, that I have always respected the way small dogs move through the world. Seeing a terrier trot along like it’s on its way to a very important cabinet meeting followed by some urgent stick-chasing and butt-sniffing can really turn my day around.
Last year a good friend adopted a tiny dog. When she picked him up from the rescue he was undernourished and preposterously small – a mix between a chihuahua and something else with big pointy ears. I fell for him immediately and so began my love affair with arsey little dogs. He vibrates with excitement. He runs like he’s gunning for Olympic gold, and he leaps with all four paws in the air in a manner that makes me want to weep. He has devised every way possible to make his way on to the kitchen counter, despite his miniature stature. He rips through toys like he’s making a wage doing it. He steals shoes. He piddles on the curtains. He’s perfect.
There are so many internet videos to cry over at the moment. At least Tiki’s story comes with a modicum of hope
Since I met him my internet offerings have become quickly curated so that I’m consistently served a diet of self-important little dogs. All classes and crosses of Pomeranians, chihuahuas, miniature dachshunds have been flooding my Instagram and TikTok feed. I’ve followed so many dog accounts that the algorithm has finally taken a break from insisting my only interests must be blinds and breast pumps and has started serving me ads for organic dog food.
Every few months a new animal takes over the internet. Last year we had Moo Deng, the tiny hippo. Before that it was Noodle the pug and his “bones or no bones” TikTok phenomenon. Mr Winkle, a small dog of indeterminate origin, is generally considered to be the web’s first animal celebrity with his huge eyes and ever-present tongue. Grumpy Cat, Lil Bub and the original DOGE all had their days in the sun. The current animal king of the internet is probably the most unassuming yet, a little foster dog called Tiki, living in an apartment in Brooklyn.
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I would kill for Tiki. I would die for him. Every day his carer introduces us to a day in the life of her “extremely fearful, shut-down foster dog”. She’s something of an expert at rehabilitating traumatised dogs, and Tiki may be her most difficult case yet. But over the course of a few weeks this little hero has gone from quivering in a cage to playing, tail wagging and even crawling into her lap for a cuddle. I’ve cried over Tiki multiple times. There are so many internet videos to cry over at the moment. At least Tiki’s story comes with a modicum of hope.
At least one of my cries has been at the prospect, no matter how distant, of Tiki dying some day. He’ll have put all this energy into learning to love and then, like all good dogs, he’ll leave this earth some time in his early or mid-teens. I worry about all the dogs I know some day passing away, and how their owners will cope. I have a cat (whose main character syndrome is the reason I can’t get a dog) who’s 12, and I worry about losing her less than I do about some of the dogs I know. Cats are just that bit less codependent. When my time for a dog comes, maybe I’ll even consider a little, curly, white friend. I probably just haven’t met the right one yet.
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