What a brilliant idea! Take the belligerence and foul temper of a miniature poodle and combine it with the greasy hair and nippy-ness of a yorkshire terrier! How could you go wrong?
I don't believe this woman for a moment. Little Darlin's my sweet ass.
I have known miniature poodles; one horribly misnamed demon named "Precious" springs to mind. Double Post knows what I'm talking about. They are floor-befouling, growling, spoiled monsters whose only use is for punting practice.
I have also known Yorkies; when I was growing up, my neighbor at the top of the hill had one. Every day, my dad would walk home from the bus from the train past its house, and every day it would emerge from its lair, growling and snapping, and hurl itself at my dad's ankles, madly trying to sink its tiny fangs into my father's suit pants as its clueless owner would wail, "Peeeeeeanut, noooooooo!"
So I was not predisposed toward finding this dog a valuable member of society. But, I kept an open mind and talked to its helmet-haired, pallid, sewing-circle-ish owner.
"Oh, how cute!" I lied. "How old is she?" The thing cowered and shook in the lady's ample lap.
"Seven months," she curtly replied, pursing her lips. "She's very frightened."
"Oh, I'm lucky that way," I said affably. "Moxie's only afraid of fireworks and the street sweeper."
"Well," sneered old lady YorkiePoo, "I think I'll take up a career as a street-sweeper then."
I took that as a cue to sit on the other side of the circle of folding chairs.
The trainer showed up and cheerily asked, "How is everybody today?"
"Fine," came the chipper response from the young girl with the pinscher, and me.
"We were fine," answered the matronly needle-pointer with the quivering mass in her lap, "until that big dog showed up." She gestured disdainfully in our direction.
I don't think I like that lady.
