Since her grandparents took her on vacation, I miss my little Ruby terribly. To accept his absence, I try to remember the worst of this little creature. In vain.
For a year and a half already, I have been Ruby’s happy dog dad, an adorable little yorkshire bichon mix who destroyed half of the sand castles of Vendée (yes, it was her). I co-adopted Ruby in a moment of bewilderment (the 18th confinement, if I remember correctly). Of course, I don’t regret anything. But it hasn’t been easy.
Here are all the moments that it would have been interesting to have in mind before falling for Miss Hairball.
The day Ruby licked someone’s neck on the subway
It’s true, I could (should?) have fallen for a 3.10 m Doberman ensuring that I kept the entire underworld of the capital at a safe distance. But that was to miss the best of parent-dog life in town: the metro where it is difficult to lug around a gigantic doggie.
In addition, Ruby is a big subway enthusiast (and me too, long live public service!). Underground, she rubs shoulders with/sniffs the whole of Paris and shows her love to it with great licks of her tongue. But love is sometimes one-sided, a whole repertoire of French songs is proof of this.
Nestled in my arms, Ruby offers long, dramatic stares at the entire oar. One day, she went so far as to lick the neck of a passenger who turned around, pissed. I had to stammer that no, it wasn’t me, that I would never have allowed myself and Ruby burst out laughing. A big moment.
The day Ruby pissed in anger
Are you tender? From the top of its 50 centimeters, Ruby still has quite a decanter. Madame hates the rain and relieves herself once back in the hall. Madame hates baths and pulls a six-foot-long face for hours on end. In short, Madame knows what she wants and what she doesn’t want.
I only have Ruby part of the week, alternating custody obliges, and one day, his mistress paid the price for a legendary canine whim. Accustomed to carrying out his own sorting of recyclable waste on the carpet of his mother dog, the little York was therefore scolded. Protest culture in the blood, my dog urinated. On the mat, of course. If you take a dog, prefer darker carpets. Friend’s advice.
The day Ruby celebrated Easter
Having successively refused to wear a party hat and a Santa Claus hat, I got used to the idea that Ruby was rejecting trade events. Yorkshire-Bichon maybe, leftist for sure. That was before Easter came around and she started a career as an apartment climber.
In my absence, chocolate (an extremely toxic and even deadly product for dogs) had remained in the kitchen, high up. Listening only to her heart, Miss Zinzin gathered momentum to jump on the trash can, then on the counter and grab the loot. This is just a reconstructionas far as I know, she may have simply developed a particularly ingenious system of pulleys. Still, when I got back, everything seemed normal. Ruby greeted me with her tail wagging, a toy in her mouth.
Then I saw the chocolate wrapper on the floor. I met the gaze of the poor little hen whose butt we had bitten off. Ruby saw what I saw. She went into hiding. And I ran to the vet where as usual, Cocoa Queen shivered in terror.
Even today, I don’t understand how she got access to chocolate. I took a york, not a meerkat, name of a dog.
The day Ruby chased a child (who’s been living just fine without her right hand ever since)
Raising Ruby is a long, difficult and constantly challenged process. After lessons, exercises and a few nervous cracks, my little york has become a good student. She even has some fluency in Latin. She is obedient, sociable and reasonable (except in front of pigeons, but even Aida is not).
There are few dog parks in Paris. I don’t know what Annie Dogo is waiting for (niche joke). Most of the gardens and parks are forbidden to doggies. Probably because fools let their droppings rot. Maybe also because the world is unfair (ex: Gérald Darmanin exists).
Near my old home, a pedestrian square served as a landmark for dog owners. We left our doggies there to socialize quietly. After a few shy sniffles, Ruby seemed resigned to going inside.
Suddenly a nerve jumped. A child of category 4 (those who speak) shouted to him “hello dog”, proof of a formidable discernment. Greetings which Ruby usually laughs heartily. Usually, yes. This time, she threw herself headlong (like Grégory Lemarchal) into the great escape, right on the kid.
I doubt I’ve ever run so fast. Ruby had never behaved like this before. I grabbed her, scolded before going home, ashamed. I no longer take it off without the place being closed since. I also try to remind parents whose children accompany walks with loud euphoric cries that Ruby is an animal. A nice little ball of fur certainly, but shy. I am the master of the dog, not the master of the game.
The day Ruby ate another dog’s poop
Because I like to finish in style, so here’s a way to ruin the e-reputation of the self-proclaimed mascot of Laisse moi kiffer. During walks, Ruby sniffs everything. Here, a piece of bread! Here, urine! Here, a mucus!
Facing the poop that an owner had forgot to pick up, she had to go and feel the goods with her own teeth. For fear that like 90% of things in this world like tomatoes, chocolate or men, the poop would be toxic to my dog, I had to pull it out of his mouth. BY HAND. My life expectancy took a hit.
Despite all these little nonsense, since corrected with great positive reinforcement shots (a response to an order = a treat), I can’t wait to find my little Ruby. I am lucky to be able to take her to work (where she is adored, just see the stories on our Instagram account).
Having a puppy (and especially a shelter puppy) has been a great source of stress to be managed with patience, perseverance and rigor. But at just two years old, Ruby is a well of wisdom who overflows with love and energy. And so much for the sandcastles.
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“The Cristina Cordula of my life is a Yorkie”