So you think this is a cute looking dog, do you? I beg to differ.
Meet the tyrant of the household; 18 lbs of teeth and attitude. She just knocked over the lentil soup I had left out for lunch and ate it. I don't even want to think about the digestive celebration which will ensue in about six hours.
She is smart. Little Bit is aware of the exact geographic center of a king-sized bed in case you might be thinking of bathing her. And on that bathing subject, she's filing a complaint with PETA.
This is the only dog I have ever encountered who growls when she wishes to be petted. I'm not quite certain where or how she picked up this little trick. I keep trying to tell her that supplication is much more effective. She tells me she is a student of Donald Trump and finds intimidaton works better for her. And that I'm fired cause her kibble just isn't cuttin' it.
Little Bit, a deceptively adorable name by the way, picks fights with big dogs. She's like the little guy that always starts the bar fight by sucker punching the meaty football player. She'll bark like a ferocious lunatic until the offended dog wanders near. Little Bit has always been walked along with bigger brothers or sisters over the years. If it looks like the other dog might be trouble, she casually walks underneath a taller canine sibling. She keeps calm and carries on, just like Queen Mary.
Or should I say the Queen of Sheba, because Little Bit must occupy the choicest spot in any given room. She searches out the freshly-washed quilt on the back of the sofa, the newly-changed bed with the sheets dried on the line, or a new living room chair, and parks herself right on it. She owns it, you see. It is hers by the divine right of kings or should I say queens? She is, after all, Little Bit. Where else should she lie down?