Because dogs will be dogs.

When I got Penny the Tiny Dog I was determined to make sure that, despite her diminutive size — she currently weighs 4.6 pounds and might get up to 6.0 — she would be just like any other dog. In my book, that means making her walk (instead of being carried), making her jump into the truck (instead of being lifted), and being free to walk off-leash in safe environments (i.e., no danger of moving vehicles, predators, crowds, etc.).

As part of her training program, I let her run loose on the 2 or 3 acres of hillside property where my mobile mansion is currently parked. There’s no fence around the property, but she seems to understand her boundaries: the road on one side, the cliff face on the other, the steep slope to the house next door, and the boat parked halfway down the driveway on its trailer. I don’t let her loose when I’m not home — she’s too small and young for that — but I’m not always outdoors with her, supervising her closely. I’m confident — through a few weeks of observation — that she’ll be okay. And even if she doesn’t come right away when I call her, I can usually find her within a few minutes.

Within her “territory” — which is actually a good term for it because she will bark to chase off neighboring dogs who come near — is a pile of bones. It’s the remains of a rabbit — or at least that’s my best guess based on a skull I snatched away from her when we first discovered it. Although once a good pile of bug-cleaned bones with very little fur or tissue (dried or otherwise), it’s since dwindled to what you see in the photo here:

 

You see, since we discovered it about two weeks ago, Penny has been revisiting it on her own. She grabs a bone and brings it home with her. Sometimes she brings it into the RV — I took three leg bones away from her just this morning and found a not-so-lucky rabbit’s foot on the floor just the other day. Other times, when she wants to keep it to herself, she’ll take it under the RV — where she knows I can’t reach her — tune me out, and gnaw on her prize until she gets tired of me throwing rocks at her.

Now you might think this is gross — after all, my dog is regularly raiding a dead animal’s carcass and bringing pieces into my home. But there are no bugs or flesh or anything else that’s disgusting. The bones are… well, bone dry. I get them away from her, give her a treat in exchange, and toss them in the garbage. It sure beats the freshly killed, half-eaten mouse she brought home from the orchard the other day.

And the way I see it, eventually the bone cache will be emptied and she’ll stop bringing bones home.

Maybe then I can get her to work on the mouse that seems to have found its way into the RV and is eating Alex’s the Bird’s food every night.

Introducing Penny the Tiny Dog.

Those who follow this blog know that I spend my summers in Washington State, far from home, where I do mostly agricultural work with my helicopter. Before coming up here this spring, I was excited about the prospect of bringing along Charlie the Dog, our Border Collie mix. My husband was stuck in a 9 to 5 grind and I’d have most of my days free. It made sense to bring Charlie with me to come on my morning walks and play with my friend Pete’s Black Lab in the open spaces of farm country.

But just before my departure, my husband got a new job that made it possible to work from home. Charlie wouldn’t be left home alone all day after all. And he wouldn’t be coming with me to Washington.

Although I have Alex the Bird with me here in Washington, a parrot is not the same as a dog. I’d planned to take Charlie with me just about everywhere I went — I cannot do the same with Alex. I miss the companionship that you can only get from a dog (or a person on the same wavelength that you’re on). So the other day, in a moment of weakness, I stopped by the Quincy Humane Society.

And I left with Penny the Tiny Dog.

To be fair, her name wasn’t Penny. It was Pixie. But people who know me also know that I’d never have a dog named Pixie. Hell, I can barely say the word without being embarrassed.

But she is sort of like a pixie. Full grown and weighing in a just under 4 pounds, she’s absolutely tiny — smaller than most cats I’ve seen. In fact, I had to buy a cat harness for her because the dog harnesses at PetCo we just too darn big.

She’s the kind of dog you see people carrying around everywhere. The kind of dog in purses. The kind of dog people bring into shops, restaurants, and supermarkets as if they’re fashion accessories instead of — well — dogs.

I don’t play that game. A dog is a dog. And while a big, slobbering Great Dane is a different animal from a recently groomed toy terrier, they’re both still animals and need to be treated as such. So Penny won’t spend any time in a purse while she’s with me and she’ll be carried as little as possible. And she certainly won’t go into a place of business other than one that encourages the presence of dogs.

I do try to take her with me everywhere I go — provided it’s not too hot for her to spend some time waiting for me in the truck if necessary. She’s been to Pete’s winery and played with Pete’s Black Lab. She’s been out to the helicopter while I refueled it and buttoned it up for its rest time between flights. She’s been to PetCo twice and has waited in the truck while I’ve run errands in Quincy and Wenatchee and Ephrata. I’ve taught her how to climb up and down the steps into the RV and I’m trying to teach her how to jump in and out of the truck’s cab on her own.

In the evening, when the golf course I’m living on has emptied out for the day, we make the half-mile walk across the fairways and roughs to the two ponds they’ve stocked with trout. She’s fine off-leash, frolicking around, chasing birds and really having the time of her life. I can see that this is all new to her — she’s probably done more running around with me in the past week than she did in the first year of her life. She sniffs around the water’s edge as I throw food into the ponds and the trout make the surface boil. When the food is gone, we walk back. Or maybe I should say that I walk back and she runs all over the place around me until we’re home.

When I leave her alone in the Mobile Mansion, she plays with her toys and drags my shoes around. She hasn’t destroyed anything yet. She likes playing with Alex the Bird’s toys, so whenever Alex drops one from her cage top, she’s on it, chewing away. She has a love-hate relationship with a bell.

She’s not 100% housebroken, which is a bit of a pain in the ass, but we’re working on it.

When I get home from being out for a few hours, she goes nuts. I let her out onto the lawn to do her business and she jumps all over the place, rolling over and over like a crazy dog on the grass.

When I work at my desk, she either curls up into a ball at my feet or stretches out in a sunny spot on the floor for a nap. It’s as if she has two speeds: on and off.

At night, she literally climbs onto my bed — like a cat! — and tucks in next to my body. She’s tried to get under the covers with me, but I won’t let her. I still can’t believe I let her on the bed. She’s the first dog I’ve let sleep on my bed since the German Shepherd we had when I was a kid. But she’s so tiny and she remains absolutely motionless all night long. Turned off.

Technically, I haven’t adopted her. I’m fostering her. But the great folks at Quincy Humane Society encourage fostering for adoption and that’s the path I’m on. But I fully admit that I’m not sure whether she’s the right dog for me. She’s certainly not a replacement for Charlie, or even Jack the Dog before him. She requires too much supervision. She’s so small and not nearly as smart. She needs more attention — more care — to keep her safe.

But for now (at least), she’s a good companion.