Sadly, it's a dog. It's a delightful little Pekinese, a breed I heartily disliked prior to owning one. The problem with being an expat--one of many problems--is the issue of dog ownership. Some countries have quarantine periods of up to six months for pets, such as dogs, which is just too long for the pooch from my point of view. (Speaking emotionally--not in terms of epidemiology, of course.) The Little Emperor's owners had to repatriate, The Little Emperor needed a home, my doggie Princess needed a companion, and that was that.
He is a chubby happy little soul, fiercely protective, appreciative of my cooking, and demanding little but some cuddling and three good walks a day. He is content to sleep under the bed, at the foot of the bed, or doing a stretch of time when my apartment building was being burgled A LOT, sleeping literally on the doorstep. Sure, he snores, and he has attacks of flatulence which, though comparatively mild, are still damned unpleasant: sure, he barks SO LOUDLY at the sound of approaching footsteps that he once caused my drunken neighbor to wet his pants in fear (shouldn't have been fumbling at the wrong door, Idiot) and sure, he likes my ayi (the one that looks like Oprah) far more than he likes me, but he's here, he's mine, and I can rest my feet on him when I sit on the sofa and he'll still pretend to like it.
He'll never "forget" my birthday and then send me a text message ten days later asking for favors of the darkest sexual nature: those who do so--and you know who you are--don't deserve to be called "dogs." I have so many other names for you, none of them having to do with canines.
