Not so much.
Our dog, Emma Woodhouse, who we call Emma, is a tiny, prissy, ball of fur. Her biggest achievement in life is the time she found a dead squirrel (possibly shot out of a birdfeeder...I'm not saying) and dragging it through the backyard. She is also extremely bossy. When we had Beauregard, our 18 year old miniature long-haired dachshund, we could call him to come inside until we were blue in the face. One sharp bark from Emma was all it took, and he'd come running because he knew he'd get nipped otherwise.
T loves to bemoan the fact that not only is he stuck in a houseful of girls, but even the dog is a girl, and she's not even a real dog. I've seen cats that would win a fight with Emma. T's most embarrassing moment was when he once decided to take Emma on a run through the local battlefield. He hadn't even gone half a mile when Emma gave up. He looked down because he felt some extra weight on the leash, and she was laying on the pavement as he dragged her along. She absolutely refused to go another inch. I couldn't blame her, really. The one time I went running with T (in the days whe I was in slightly better shape), he ran way too fast, and tried to lecture me on the finer points of running correctly. He claims he was humiliated as he walked home holding his dog in his arms, as other runners rushed by, their sleek labs and shiny retrievers panting as they galloped alongside their masters.
It really didn't help Emma's rep on the block when she returned from PetsMart grooming last week with a blowout and two pink bows in her hair. The dog has a better beauty regimen than I do! Natalie, of course, was thrilled with the addition of hair bows. Michaela Byrd was just excited to ride with the "goggy" in the car.
Maybe I should surprise T with a golden retriever puppy for Valentine's Day? T talks a big game, but every night when I go to kiss him before I head upstairs to shower, that little fluff ball is perched on the leather couch with him. He claims she is warming his feet.
Her yappy bark always alerts us when there is a car in the driveway...or a cracker being handed out in the Kitchen, or someone jumping out of bed upstairs during naptime. Yes, Emma Woodhouse is worth her weight in gold...gold plated, that is...all ten pounds of her.
What kind of dog wears pink hairbows, T wants to know. I really can't say. This is more of a fur muff than a dog.