I used to make fun of people with little dogs. It was a sport of mine, to pick on those members of society who were clearly unable to choose a socially acceptable pet.

It wasn’t that I was anti-animals, for I had more than my fair share of pets; guinea pigs, rabbits, dogs, cats, chickens, a Shetland pony and even a duck (who thought it was a human and met a grisly end after being duck-napped and eaten by our neighbours for Christmas dinner, when I was 6 years old – but that’s another story).

Little dogs always seemed rather pointless. They were divided neatly into two camps, as far as I was concerned. The first group were those who yapped incessantly and snarled ferociously in defence of their choice of comfy chair in the family home, and pity the poor fool who tried to pat them – you could lose an arm…to an Australian Silky.

The second group were even more annoying. They did pretty much nothing…except pant…a lot…and maybe lick their bottom….all day, everyday. It always puts me in mind of the frustrated ex-spy in “The Long Kiss Goodnight” (great film) who loses his temper after the family dog had been licking its bottom for what seems like decades:

Nathan: Alice, please. Your dog, Alice. It and my appetite are mutually exclusive.

Alice: Well, what's wrong with the dog?

Nathan: Simple. He's been licking his asshole for the last three straight hours. I submit to you that there is nothing there worth more than an hour's attention. I should think that whatever he is attempting to dislodge is either gone for good, or there to stay. Wouldn't you agree?

Then, after quite a few years of being pet-free, I started feeling the yearning for the pitter patter of feet about the house (compared to the elephantine thumping about of our teenage son). I knew that not only could we not afford to feed a large dog, we also had the world’s smallest house (ok, that’s a lie – I almost bought the world’s smallest house in Fitzroy recently). So that led me down the twisting, turning, slightly scary path of small (maligned) dogs.

Being the freak that I am, I felt that I should really go the whole hog (so to speak) and get myself a Chihuahua. Logical progression; I’m a freak, they are freaks. I thought we could be freaks together.

So I started frequenting the web sites of all the dog shelters and rescue organisations. I read the “Free to good home” section of the Trading Post and kept an eye out for emails doing the rounds that offered some broken down old bitser for a remarkably inflated price. It became quite addictive.

Then one day, like a shining beacon of light beaming forth from the depths of the soulless chasm of consumerism and disposability (is that even a word?), an ad leapt out at me: Free to a good home – 3 legged Chihuahua.

I was on the phone to my husband faster than I can normally consume a Cadbury’s Family Block, to tell him that I had finally found our soon-to-be-much-loved family pet.

The reaction was not quite what I was expecting. He was at work, in one of those cubicle-laden Hades we have all come to know and hate. He picked up the phone; I triumphantly declared my success… There was a stony silence…followed by a thundering voice yelling “We are NOT getting a three-legged Chihuahua”. After another moment of shocked silence, gales of laughter from his workmates and a grim silence from my beloved issued forth. My desperate pleas and assertions that we HAD to adopt him because no-one else would were met with total rejection. Sigh….back to the drawing board (I still wonder what happened to the 3-legged Chi, all these years later).

Next up, on the list of 20 to 1 unacceptable pets a bleeding-heart-do-gooder will bring home, was a Chihuahua / Jack Russell cross. He was a stray, 10 years old (did they have to cut him in half and count the rings to work that out ???) and had a heart murmur, cataracts in both eyes, canine epilepsy and no teeth, so his tongue hung out to one side (nothing to hold it in). He was on the “Special Needs” list (what a surprise).

This time, I insisted on actually dragging my beloved off to the dog shelter to meet this one ‘in person’.

They brought him out and took us to a little yard where we could interact with the dog. Finally, we were face-to-face with the potential new member of our little family. It didn’t go well…he was nervous, distracted, fidgeting, uninterested in us and just wanted to hide under the bench we were sitting on or sniff the fence (like a junkie).

However, when we managed to catch him and my beloved picked him up, this little dog snuggled straight in and tucked his head in between my husband’s neck and shoulder; sighing.

My husband looked at me. I looked at my husband. The dog didn’t move a millimetre. My husband sighed and said “I guess we’ll have to take this one home, then?”

So, we jumped through the adoption hoops and took our little treasure back to our little house and our little family.

Naming him was the next fun part. Having a ridiculously over-inflated estimate of our own comedy prowess (after decades of a steady diet of BBC comedy), we set about trying a whole lot of Mexican names; Paco, Jose, Manuel, Pablo…..no reaction from the dog. I guess he was just waiting it out until we ran out of steam (like our son usually does).

In frustration, I said “Charlie” (one of my favourite uncles) and the dog turned around and looked straight at me. So, he named himself. Charlie it was.

To make a long story short, Charlie settled into domestic chaos in our household extremely well. He was house-trained, de-sexed, understood the precious currency of the Scotch Finger biscuit, loved a bit of Vegemite toast and became completely obsessed with his “mummy” – me.

I, of course, after many years of gazing upon these small creatures as though they were something stuck to the bottom of my shoe, fell completely in love. I cooked him his own meals (yes, yes, I know – tragic), talked to him all the time, taught him the importance of the Fluffy Dressing Gown of Joy (FDGoJ) and the Couch of Perpetual Succour and ensured he learnt some REALLY important words, like “cuddle”, “biscuit”, “schmako” and “toast”. I think we worked “walk” and “bath” in there somewhere, but he wasn’t as taken with those words.

My husband used to shake his head and say that he had never seen a dog so devoted to its owner. When hubby and teenage son would come home, Charlie might deign to lift an eyelid, sniff and go back to sleep. When I came home, it was all four legs off the floor, tail going madly and tongue flapping in the wind.

He understood the sacred beauty of the weekend paper and would curl up and snore on my lap, while I did The Saturday Age crossword. He didn’t drool on things or wee when he got excited. However, he did issue truly noxious fumes from his bottom, turn and glare accusingly at whoever he was with, and leave the room in a huff. He got jealous of my husband and would try to jostle in between us on the couch (hilarious – unless you’re my husband, of course), and liked to hide in the pantry and gaze lovingly at all the packaged food.

He and I had many adventures together – most memorable was the time when my boys were interstate and Charlie and I were home. We had mice in the garage (not pets – vermin) and one managed to get into the house.

Confidently armed with a broom, some Tupperware (what else to catch a mouse in???) and a dog that was half Jack Russell, I set about cornering the poor thing. After some rather entertaining gambolling about with my eclectic weapons, we managed to corner the mouse on a shelf in the pantry. I put Charlie onto the shelf, practically piggy-backing the mouse…..nothing. He couldn’t see it, he couldn’t smell it – ridiculous. The mouse ended up in the Tupperware after some more frolicking, but Charlie’s dignity was in shreds. My husband rang from QLD to see how I was doing. I’m pretty sure his friends considered rushing him to hospital because he laughed so hard and so long that it was possible he was going to have a stroke or end up in the Guinness Book of Records for World’s Longest Laughing Man with Strange Wife and Bizarre Pet.

A few months ago, Charlie started to go a little funny (yes – it WAS hard to tell, as he was so very strange anyway). I took him to the vet, who diagnosed dementia but assured me that, for an almost-15 year old dog, Charlie was extremely spritely and healthy. I amused myself on the way home by ringing my husband and telling him that I had just paid someone $40 to tell me my dog was demented.

10 days later, our little darling had a very bad night, which culminated in a massive stroke in our arms. It turns out that the dementia may have actually been a brain tumour. We rushed him off to the Emergency 24 Vet Clinic (those people are worth their weight in gold), where he was treated with tenderness, excellent medical care and great concern. We cuddled him, we talked to him and then we let him go to the Great Schmako in the sky.

We had him cremated and put in a lovely little rosewood box. He now lives on my bedside table – which may or may not creep you out, but I don’t really care as I am, as previously mentioned, a freak.

Our house was very, very empty without Charlie, so we started the search for another little weirdo to join our circus.

Two weeks ago, we brought Izzy home from the RSPCA. She is a ridiculously cute puppy – not a deranged, second hand, broken down geriatric with a wiffy bottom. She pees on the floor, bites, chews, barks and hasn’t yet picked a favourite from among the 3 people in our house.

I am quickly realising that the road ahead is verrrrrrry long. She needs to be taught about toast, cuddles, the Fluffy Dressing Gown of Joy and Couch of Perpetual Succour. She has to learn not to stick her head in the way when I’m trying to do a crossword and that my cup of English Breakfast Tea is not to share.

I have already introduced her to the Warm Towel After Bathing (the only thing Charlie liked about bath time) – which she seemed to really take to – and we will be joining our friends at the Chihuahua Meet-Up group this weekend, for her first play-date with ‘people’ her own size.

Perhaps with Hanukkah and Christmas upon us, I might pop a ribbon around Charlie-in-a-Box and sit him under the tree. He and Izzy can ‘bond’ and he can be with us in spirit.

Or perhaps he could have a seat at the table, as we can finally trust him to participate in the festivities without the danger of him flatulating and blaming it on Gran.

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