I’m not sure why, but that is just the word/name we use when speaking of him. As in, “where’s the doof?” or “look at the doof!” or “doooof, doooooof, c’mere doof!”
His real name is Wilson. Wilson Francisco to be exact. But you have to say it in a certain way – emphasize Francisco ala Buddy the Elf (Will Farrell).
He brings us joy.
He was found in a dumpster when he was just a few weeks old – let’s just skip that part though and move him along to when he lived with a nice lady and her young son for most of his first year after that. Then they suddenly needed to be “doof-free” and we found him and brought him home to be our very own.
They said he was Chihuahua. While he looks enough like a Chi to be called one, he has a varied blend of breeds that leave us with the sure knowledge he is NOT a Chi. He is Jack Russell terrier. He is Chi. He is Feline. He is Clown. He is Human. He is a variety of other terrier types with all their charms and none of their annoying characteristics, and surely there is a hint of Rottweiler or Doberman for he is as sure and cocky and fierce as any dog of that size – all 6 lbs of him.
He is handsome, a great tri-color with fabulous markings, bat-like radar ears, happy upright tail, deer shaped head, and the most amusing bowlegged way of walking. He lays so pretentiously with his little tiny front paws crossed and has a hot and heavy love affair going on with the space heater in the bathroom – he spends hours laying in front of it basking in the glow of it’s warm love. And he is ours. Correction, he is MINE. He tolerates all others, expresses joy in other family members, but belongs heart, soul, and all 6lbs of devotion to ME. My little Wilson.
If ever there is an ad campaign for owning a pet, for adopting one that is already grown, it shouldn’t be a famous musician and a montage of sad starved abused animals, but a divorcee and her lonely bed and a dog whose current owner just doesn’t “get” him. Because bringing Wilson and I together has been more delightful and fulfilling and life-saving than any other form of therapy or mediation. We belong together, my little handful of dog and I.
I worry what his reaction will be to the impending baby… I know he senses the pregnancy in whatever way dogs sense that. He has been more protective, more concerned in nature – but also very clingy. I don’t feel he’ll be aggressive to the baby, only that he’ll feel left out, dismissed, displaced. Like a true jealous sibling I expect I’ll need to give him extra attention, take him on all our walks, and even coach him through appropriate behavior. I’m sure it will work out, like everything else in life things always work themselves out.