A big guy like Palo Alto you’d think should have a big dog. Some beautiful chocolate or golden Labrador, a Weimaraner, or a big German Shepherd.
He’s got Penny. A miniature Labradoodle.
He initially rejected any notion of having a small dog. By small we’re talking Bison Frise, Poodle, Maltese, or Lhaso Apso. Nope. He absolutely would not be party to any purchase of a small, tiny, yippy dog. He wanted nothing to do with carrying a small dog in an over the shoulder bag, big, pink, rhinestones, and “PRINCESS” emblazoned on the outside of it. (I don’t think it was the rhinestones he objected to, it’s the sparkle crap he hates.)
He finally gave in to Penny. After 2 years – more than that if you include the years I wanted a dog – of his daughters’ begging him for a dog, he caved.
He gave into a small, NOT TEA CUP!, but small dog, for the sole reason that he knew his 3 small girls wouldn’t do well with a big, hairy, drooly, smelly dog.
The man who didn’t want a dog, the man who fought the good fight for almost 5 years finally gave in. The irony is, she adores him more than all of us combined. They’re pals, buds. He’s the first one she greets when we all walk through the door, the first one she wants to sit beside if we’re sitting on the couch.
Mi flaco and his Penny. Next to watching him with his babies, watching him with this little fur ball melts my cold, NY heart.