Meet Jingles, the “Pretty-Boy Dog

Tiny dog. Huge personality. Full ritual.

I think I’m finally starting to figure him out. Jingles. The bitchiest little seven-pound dog that has walked the planet earth.

He is loyal and kind, affectionate and loving.

To whoever has the food.

Or the warmest lap.

Or the new pretty designer-doggy clothes.

He is a fashionista living in the wrong part of the continent. He clearly knows that somehow a cruel twist of fate took him out from under the zip 90210 and landed him in Canada. Cold Canada.

Designer-for-doggies lacking. Cold. What kind of self-respecting, fashion-forward, designer-hungry, grossly-misunderstood 7-pound-designer-dog would want to live in Canada?

They don’t even have zip codes in Canada!

He really believes he is a true-blue Beverly Hills Teacup Chihuahua. Full stop. To him it is a travesty that he somehow ended up in the suburbs of cold, normal, people-who-say-“eh” Canada.

It is hard not to feel sorry for him. To be adopted by a middle-class family is an insult to his entire self-formed and probably ridiculously correct identity. It is a death sentence to his runway-conscious, behaviourally creative, shopping-happy little self.

When he was in his prime little-demon-dog era, the routine was always the same.

Jingles was the truest form of a shopaholic. He expected presents every time I walked in the door, and made sure to communicate his expectations with outlandish behaviour.

He immediately sniffed out if I had been at the pet store. (Just how did he know?????) He would run as fast as his tiny, little, sometimes-stubbornly-slow but now concerningly-fast legs could, and if pet shop was detected, he would start jumping on the plastic bags in my hand, trying to paw them out of my grip.

If it was a new ball, he would be thrilled. He would also immediately hide it somewhere in the house to ensure no one else had a chance to enjoy it other than him. He was so small he could fit into tiny places, and he loved hiding many surprising things. Dead bird once. Chicken bones. Fifteen new balls from the pet store. Two different socks. And other unidentified random things that I did not want to figure out.

He ran ahead of me to make sure I did as expected and did not veer away from the kitchen, where he would wait by the “chair of revelation” with his Pandora’s box of unspoken, unimagined treasures.

He would barely contain himself as I sat down and pulled out the first “gift” from the bag. A toy or ball would make him happy, but he would quickly return to me and the bag, squirming as he anticipated what he really wanted.

New clothes.

Designer. Specifically.

Not pink.

(Or at least we did not say “oh yes, pink!” out loud.)

But, oh yes pink. He was a secret pink-loving little frou-frou-frilly-fancier-equals-better proud little he-man dog. To be clear.

If nothing came out of the bag, not good. He would pout and be grumpy all day. For real.

But if I pulled out a pretty little sweater (or three), a fancy-shmancy jacket, a new blinged-up collar, the little demon-dog turned into the happiest creature ever created in God’s great Creation.

It became a ritual. I would tease him. “Jingles… what does Mommy have?”

I would shake the bag towards him and he would immediately start pawing and scratching at it, impatient. I would hold a little corner of whatever it was for him to partially see, and his patience coiled tight like a bed spring. He would jump in place to show me he was eager, and when I finally took it out, he would spin in circles, barely able to wait to put it on.

Even putting new clothes on him was hilarious.

As I removed the piece from the hanger and took the tags off, his little tail was whiplash-fast. He brought his head close to the sweater or jacket and would duck, duck, duck his head into the area he guessed was the neck hole, trying to slip it into place. If he could have, he would have ripped it out of my hands and shoved it on himself.

New sweater on.

This was the time the real show began.

Once properly attired, Jingles would sit down in front of me and wait.

Not a normal wait. Ritual wait.

Praise.

Pretty Jingles.

I knew what he wanted and he knew I knew. I would look at him and, evil me, enjoying how ridiculous it was, I would purposefully not react. Instead, I would just smile brightly at him. The little bugger understood the nuance of human behaviour better than any human ever did.

Staring hard at me as if trying to send me the vibe, he stared. Hard. A huge doggy-style frown spread over his tiny face. I am waiting. Impatiently. Now.

Eventually he would become irritated and stare while fluttering his eyelashes. The eyelash fluttering was the ultimate stupid-human-do-you-not-understand-me message.

Then he would wait again.

If I continued to do nothing, he would come and tap a paw on my leg, like, hey, notice me.

If still no reaction, two-paw power tap. This was not a polite tap. This was a what the hell is wrong with you? I AM WAITING! forceful double-paw punch.

Then he would sit down and flutter those lashes again.

Eventually I would feel sorry for him and look at him with a syrupy voice and say, “Ooooooh Jingles… you are sooooo pret-ty.”

Ahhhhhhh. There it was.

Jingles was all a-flutter. Tail wagging, eyelashes in full force flutter, tiny face with the biggest doggy-smile ever.

“Pretty, pretty Jingles…”

Pure seven-pound delight. He would prance around in his new outfit, waiting for the rest of the family to join in and praise, as he went one direction and then another.

Pretty Jingles loved pretty.

And we smiled.

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