True Confessions of a Toy Dog-Owning Man

Looking over last week’s column, I realize I’ve inadvertently insulted one of the county’s most ignored minorities--toy breed dogs. I ranted on about the virtues of large dogs fetching Frisbees at the beach, never stopping to think that many people have little ankle-biters at home, for whom attempting to catch a Frisbee could prove fatal.

There are two kinds of people in the world--those who own toy breed dogs, and those who don’t (profound). More specifically, there are two human attitudes toward toys, governed almost totally by ownership or lack thereof.

The latter group is a distinct majority. They see toy (or miniature) dogs as everything a dog should not be. They consider them superfluous, irrelevant, irritating, neurotic, mean, cowardly and--especially when encountering one fresh from the groomer with a ribbon around its pencil neck and freshly clipped toenails--visually abrasive.

Of course, there is a deeper reason why people dislike small dogs, which is basically the same reason they dislike small anything: small things make them feel small. One need not be a strict Freudian to understand why a male American of average height, virility and self-respect would not want to be seen walking his toy poodle in public. The same goes for women, though perhaps less so: Why would any enlightened 1990s woman prefer to be seen with a Chihuahua on a string rather than with a Beauvier de Flanders yanking away on the dominant leather leash that so perfectly complements her black leather boots?

One can take this line of thought a step further, and account for the recent popularity of Staffordshire terriers (pit bulls) as a sorry reflection on the self-opinion of some of their owners, who would certainly take their AK-47s and .44 magnums for walks if the damn things would just heel. Although a pit bull is not a big dog, its huge ferocity is a matter of record, as is (sociological studies are beginning to show) the insecurity and lowish IQs of many of their owners. The simple fact of the matter is that not many people have the courage to associate with the little guy, the runt, the--sorry--underdog. It’s an admission of weakness, or at least of humility, of subtle taste and skewed humor, none of which seem to rate as highly as they should these days on the self-actualization pyramid.

For these very understandable reasons, I was once strictly a large-dog advocate. As with many miracles, my conversion had to be forced upon me by a power greater than myself--in this case, my wife.

She had been asking for a “toy-breed companion animal” (even the words made my skin crawl) for months. She was pretty much confined to the house because of illness, and she wanted something cuddly around.

In theory I agreed. I explained that her housebroken golden retriever was welcome in the house, which in fact it wasn’t, given its size, stench, and the fact that the retriever liked it better outside anyway, where it could bark at nothing, raid trash cans on Wednesdays, and eat hornets.

But even having this brute inside seemed better than a yapping, antic little tyrant that would probably steal some of my wife’s affections from me and certainly defecate upon the cream-colored sofas I was dumb enough to buy.

In dire need of counsel, I went to an old friend and mentor of mine, Fritz Johnson of Fullerton, an avid outdoorsman and as strict a large-dog man as there can be. (Perhaps this was like asking a Ford dealer if you need a new Honda.) He once referred to small dogs as “rodents.” He is also a wise and reasonable man. I explained the predicament.

“Get her the dog,” he said.

Unconvinced, I polled my father, Robert Parker, also a man of outdoor proclivities, no small wisdom, very small tolerance for household pets of any kind, and a usually sure-fire supporter of son Jeff’s decisions.

“Get her the dog, son,” he said.

Desperate for allies, I pulsed my best friend, Paul Shaner of Forest Falls, whose comic imitations of small dogs are legendary in some circles and who refers to his own cats as vermin.

“Just get her the dog,” he snapped.

We looked at a pug but it had a lousy eye.

We looked at a Boston terrier but they sold it to somebody else.

We tried to find a “tea-cup poodle” ( aaaahhhh!!! ), but none were available.

We looked at a Chihuahua but it didn’t like me.

Finally, on the advice of veterinarian John Hamil of Laguna Beach, we answered an ad for a Papillon.

“Papillon” means “butterfly” to the French, who gave the name to this breed of toy dog because it has ears that stick out like butterfly wings. Big minds worked on that one, I thought. I looked up papillon in the AKC dog breeds book, only to find myself confronted by a picture of a tiny, hairy mammal with ears about the size of back-yard satellite discs. The book claimed it was a dog.

“Ohhh,” said my wife.

You might remember that in 1991 we got something like six inches of rain, 5 1/2 inches of which came down in about three hours one February night. This is the night we went to see the papillon.

Drenched, half-frozen and terrified (the lightning kept striking about 10 feet from our car, which I took to be anti-toy breed warning signs from the gods) we finally arrived in the living room of an actual papillon breeder in Orange.

She cut the puppies loose. I turned to look at a painting on her wall, and when I looked back, one of the tiny mutants had already found its way onto my wife’s lap, whereupon it stood on chopstick legs, raised its batish face to my bride and commenced licking her.

The breeder told us the price and I did some quick math. At $750 a pop, the papillon puppy would run us roughly $375 a pound. At maturity, an eight-pound Papillon would amortize out to $93.75 per pound, considerably more expensive than either lobster or a fine Labrador retriever. “We should think about this,” I ventured.

“No, we should not,” said my wife. “ Look at him. “

Well, I did, and I have been for almost a year now since. I will confess it took the diminutive monster about one hour to win over my hardened heart, and I like the dinky troll so much I actually walk him, proudly, in Laguna Beach . He’s the most curious, attentive, amusing, insane, agreeable, good-natured and hilarious-looking thing I’ve ever seen.

Everyone should have at least one.

The perfect stocking-stuffer!