By Sue-Ellen Sanders
I was the one who wanted a small dog. I figured they would be easier to train and control, portable to carry around and their dog belongings would take up less room in my house.
When our family adopted Cookie, we didn't realize that she would stay that small, anyway, not growing beyond three pounds.
We named her Cookie, after a cookie of the chocolate chip kind, and then sat by while she engineered a take over of our home.
A dark chocolate brown poodle - probably a Yorkie-poo from her looks - Cookie is 2 years old. They say it takes longer to housetrain a very small dog, but really Cookie trained rather quickly.
The problem is that during the summer, grass grows so quickly that to this little dog, a week's growth of lawn looks like a jungle. So, even though she knows to do her business outside, she doesn't always want to do her business there.
I understand. I just don't care anymore.
No one is debating Cookie's cuteness. This is a cuddle-bunny who would rather be carried than walk around. When she is tired, she'll run up to my foot and sit on it, waiting to be picked up. In my arms, she will lean into my body and tuck her little dog chin on top of my shoulder, in that loving, trusting, helpless way my babies never had.
When I take her outside, she will cock her head in wonderment and look at me beseechingly. Isn't that cute? I thought. Boy, did she have me bamboozled!
Until the night when Cookie became a monster, a dictator attempting to take over the house and become boss of the bed and bedroom.
Maybe I'm exaggerating the story a little. You know how things get blown out of proportion when you're tired and it's late. It was after 10:30 p.m. on a weeknight, and my husband was still at a meeting that was running late.
The kids were in bed, asleep, and I was ready to go to bed, too. I took the dogs out for one last outing. Mack, the poodle puppy, chased a few lizards and did her business. "Good Girl," I told her.
Cookie looked at me as if to question my place on Earth. I waited for 10 minutes, watching for her little brown butt to grace the ground in that special position. Nothing.
So, I brought Mack back inside and took Cookie out front, where the grass was just a tad shorter, her preferred urination grounds, and waited. Still nothing.
Time dragged on. I walked up and down in front of the house. Finally, after 11 p.m., I gave up and staggered to bed, exhausted.
I was washing my face and brushing my teeth at the sink, when I saw Cookie slip in the master bathroom behind me. Before I could wipe my face with a towel, she assumed the position and peed all over my bathroom mat.
I was storming downstairs with the dog in my hand, shaking with anger and frustration, when my husband walked in the door. I handed her off to him.
"If you love that dog, then don't let her get near me tonight," I told him.
He came upstairs to bed, crooning softly to that sweet little furry puppy.
"Don't worry, I won't let the mean momma hurt you," he said.
Cookie looked over his shoulder at me as she curled in the curve of his neck, and I swear I saw her wink!
Sue-Ellen Sanders writes about family issues every week in the Hometown News. Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org.