When my wife suggested getting our family a Doberman Pinscher, I thought it was a great idea.  Doberman Pinschers are intelligent, fiercely loyal, obedient dogs, with a muscular stand that would chase off even the bravest of burglars. My wife has an instinct for animals, so when she went on to say that she was going to see a litter of Pinscher puppies while I was at work, I trusted her opinion, knowing that there was a certainty that when I got home that evening, there would be a four-legged little pup running around our house.

Sure enough, as a entered through the kitchen door that evening, there, in the middle of the kitchen's tile, stood a Doberman puppy - docked tale, pointy ears, chocolate coat, fang-like teeth, broad chest - looking up to me as if it was waiting on queue to attack.

"Daddy, I want you to meet Maisy," my daughter said, scooping up the tiny pup off the floor, and setting her on my lap.  "'Maisy' is what we named her."

With the puppy on my lap, I examined her paws, remembering that I once read that you can tell how big a dog will become as an adult based on the size of its paws as a puppy - that is, a puppy with big paws will grow into a big dog.  

"This puppy has the smallest paws I've ever seen," I said to my wife, whom was standing by the table awaiting my reaction to her pick of the litter.  "Actually, this is the smallest Doberman puppy I've ever seen."

"She's a little dog," my daughter said.  "She's not like the big ones."

"What do you mean?" I asked, cuddling the puppy, looking at my wife.

"She's not really a Doberman," my wife said with a guilty smirk, the same smirk she offers when she goes clothe shopping beyond our budget agreement.

I looked at the dog in my lap, picturing the guard Dobermans on the old television show, Magnum P.I. - she's an exact replica of the limb-ripping attack dogs on the show.

"She looks like a Doberman to me - just tiny," I added.

"She's a Miniature Pinscher, purebred," my wife said.

"How big will she get?" I asked.

"8- to 10-pounds," my wife said.

"Exactly how much does a purebred Miniature Pinscher cost?" I asked.

"The same as a full-size," my wife said.

"So, all the cost of a real Doberman, but a tenth the size," I added.

As Maisy grew from 8-weeks to eight months - or, didn't grow, as the case was - she became quite the little head of household, prancing around with her chiseled chest flared, excited ears up, and dainty docked tail bobbing, taking roost on the arm of our family-room couch, which placed her at the eye level of a real Doberman.  Dare the doorbell ring, and Maisy would tare at the door, driven to attack the ankles of whoever stood on the other side of the door.  True, she couldn't live up to a Doberman in stature, but she compensated with attitude.  

Although my family fell in love with her, and she with them, Maisy and I just couldn't bond - there's merely something ridiculous about an 8-pound dog with a distorted body image, thinking that it's ten-times its size.  She often growled at me from her arm of the couch when I entered the room, and I'd roll up, look her dead in the eyes, and growl back until she coward down.  She'd try to steal my pillow from our bed at night, till I'd pick her up like a football, and toss her back to the foot of the bed, where she'd rest until my wife was asleep, and then I'd quietly push little Queen Maisy off the bed.  Ultimately, I was the alpha male, and that was that - a problem for Maisy, I suppose.

"Why don't you take Maisy for a walk," my wife said one evening.  "She's leash-trained now."

"Are you kidding - that dog will either get run over or dragged, and probably both," I replied.  

"No, she walks well on a leash now," my wife added.  "A good walk every night will do her good - you two can bond."  

"OK," I said, namely out of spite.  "I'll take little Queen Maisy for a walk, but we're doing it on my terms - she's running with the big dogs."

"Oh, don't worry, she'll keep up with your powerchair just fine," my wife said.

"I'll be the judge of that," I replied.

So, I went and got the leash off the hook by the garage door, and clipped it on Maisy, whom was perched on the arm of the couch.

"Here are the rules, Dog," I said, looking Maisy straight in her eyes, "we're running at 10-miles-per hour, and I'm not stopping for anything.  If you see small children or other dogs, I'm not stopping.  If you want to court a fire hydrant, I'm not stopping.  If your little legs get tired, and you fall behind, I'm not stopping.  And, if you dare make any foolish moves that involve my wheels and your leash, I'm not stopping.  Do you understand me?"

The dog sat attentive for a moment, then darted off the couch, pulling at the leash in my hand like a sled dog attached to a tree.

"Maisy, I'm a grown man in a powerchair, with its brakes set," I said.  "You are an 8-pound wanna-be Doberman.  You can pull till your stubby legs wear off, but until I'm ready, we're not going anywhere. . . ."

As we headed out through our garage, down the driveway, Maisy pulled with greater force, charging at the world like a racing greyhound released from a gate, her paws tearing at the smooth concrete, trying to sprint ahead.  The faster I went, the more she pulled, her head bobbing with each of her muscular grunts, and her purple collar with fake diamonds elongating under her might.  Coming up to full speed, 10-miles-per-hour, Maisy still pulled ahead of me as we rounded the first bend on our street, her body stretched out long and low, her strides in rhythm, puling, pulling, pulling, seemingly certain that she could propel my powerchair infinitely faster.  Down the first hill, as my chair gained even more speed, I thought that she would fall behind, but she didn't - her thin, muscular legs continued propelling her body forward, effortlessly pushing of the earth to which I was attached.  A mile past, without stopping, we looped around the neighborhood, heading for home.  On the straightaway, 8-blocks from our home, Maisy slowed a bit, trotting beside me, where she mockingly used her mouth to grab the slack in the leash, then charged ahead of me, tugging me along.  As she saw our open garage door in the distance, a den to which she was running, she pulled harder on the leash.  We roared into the garage, up the ramp, into the kitchen, where I released the leash, allowing her to dart toward the family-room, where she resumed her perch on the couch, sitting there, closed mouth, as if she'd never left.

"Didn't you take her for a walk?" my wife asked, seeing Maisy's undaunted appearance.

"Yeah, I just ran that dog 2-miles, full speed, and she never slowed," I said.  "I don't know what kind of batteries you put in that dog, but they last forever. "

"So, Maisy proved herself able to run with the big dogs, did she, my wife added".  

"Absolutely," I said, "the dog proved mightier than the powerchair."



This article is Copyrighted by Mark E. Smith . It is reproduced here with his kind permission. You can find even more of his articles at http://www.WheelChairJunkie.com