The Trials of Miles

My little dog, Miles, thinks it is his mission in life to murder squirrels. He can spot a squirrel from 300 yards away. The second he sees that curly, fluffy tail, he starts pulling on the leash with all his might, barking and snarling and braying like the two headed hound of Hades. It is a completely horrible sound. I walk him very early in the morning, and I'm sure that anyone within a half mile will not only be woken up, but is probably considering calling the police. At this point, I have two choices: I can pick Miles up, (he's tiny,) or I can suffer through the entire rest of the walk with him swearing homicidal oaths in doggy language at the top of his iddle widdle lungs.

Naturally, I pick him up, at which point he begins to struggle with all his tiny muscles, crying and squealing at the unfairness of it all. It's still loud, but not as loud. He sounds like I'm torturing him, and when my neighbors hear it, they all stop what they're doing and watch us walk by. Sometimes I have the heart to stop and explain that Miles is merely expressing his existential angst that I'm heartlessly preventing him from his mission in life. But most of the time I merely bow my head in shame that I haven't been able to teach my adorable little dog that squirrels are not performing errands for Satan himself.

I've tried distracting him with snausages, scolding him, putting him in a gentle leader (which he hates), obedience school, forcing him to heel, and making him sit down within the presence of a squirrel. I've tried everything short of bopping him on the nose, which is what one neighbor of mine advocates. (I draw the line at physical violence.) Nothing works. I've finally learned to accept that my twelve pound Maltese mix has a stronger will than I do.

The fact is, I love this naughty little dog with all my heart. We found him in the animal shelter trying to chew his way out of a metal cage. We were warned that he was an older dog with ingrained behavioral issues, but we thought, "He's so cute and tiny! What harm could he possibly do?"

We were right, mostly. In the house, he's an adorable little dream of cuteness. He's affectionate and gentle. He chews on absolutely nothing. He's a great watchdog, but he's not an overzealous yapper by any means. He gives sweet little kisses and he loves us with all his doggy heart. It's just when we're walking that his vices come out. And so we endure.

Is not this the essence of love? Acceptance?

It could also be the essence of wimpiness, but whatever.