Someone on Facebook posted a picture of her new Yorkie and said Yorkies are a breed unto themselves because they run the lives of their owners. I would agree. Yorkies are not for everyone. They are deceptively adorable, and along with their adorableness comes an attitude.
Are they manipulative? No. Yorkies are very clear with their wants and demands. I am a willing participant in the lives of our Yorkies. Maybe it’s because we are now empty-nesters, or maybe it’s because when I talk to them they listen and decide whether or not they agree. Maybe I’m just crazy. That is a real possibility, I suppose. It’s clear who is in charge, however, and it’s not me.
Three, if not all four, follow me wherever I go. We, as a group, go to the kitchen, the living room, my home office, and of course, the bathroom. I assume they think since I go out with them while they do their chores, I should be accompanied, too. There is nothing quite like having an audience while you are sitting on the porcelain throne. I’m pretty sure they are keeping track of me. I am getting on in years, have experienced a silver moment or two, and I have been known to fall, although, in my defense, the last time I fell was while chasing one of them in the backyard. No one ever accused me of being graceful.
They can tell time, too. I have no need for an alarm clock, or for a clock, period. Without looking at the clock I know when it is time for meals. Four Yorkies line up in the kitchen at 5 pm for their evening meal. Each patiently sits waiting for me to get out their plates, warm the organic chicken or beef and vegetables I mix with their kibble, and place their plates in front of them. You heard right; organic meat and vegetables. For the longest time, I carefully selected their chicken and beef to make sure neither has hormones or antibiotics and, of course, are free-range. One day I noticed the chicken and beef I bought for us was the barely-acceptable-for-human-consumption meat. Wow. Perhaps I am certifiable? Now, both dogs and humans eat the same quality meats.
Kaiah ‘helps’ me when I load the dishwasher by putting her ball on the open door and watching it roll into one of the slots in the silverware tray. It reminds me of playing pinball when I was a kid. She gets a kick out of it. Kaiah is crazy about tennis balls, loves to play fetch morning, noon, and night. In the evenings, after we have thrown the miniature tennis balls for her to retrieve for the thousandth time, my husband picks her up, gathers up the tennis balls, and they go through their nightly ritual. Together, they play night-night balls. He carries her over to the basket where we keep her balls and she watches him put them into the basket, one-by-one. Then, and only then, will she settle down for the night. In this case, and this case only, she is the one who is trained. We are trained to throw her tennis balls, and sometimes fetch them for her if she isn’t happy with the distance of the lob. Go figure.
We have had other dogs in our lifetimes. They were well-trained. Turn about is fair play, so now we are the ones who are well-trained…..