Abigail, our love
UPDATED: Today, Abigail turns 13. This is an ode to the Chihuahua who runs our entire lives.
Abigail is a 13-year-old Chihuahua mix, which in human years makes her ancient—but you’d never know it by the way she charges through life like a caffeinated general. She came to us in 2013 via Pooches on the Move in Tennessee, the runt of her litter and originally named Tippy because her tiny, unreliable legs refused to cooperate with gravity. We regret, daily and profoundly, that we did not also adopt her brother, Topper, who looked exactly like her. This regret has aged like fine wine and mild guilt.
Now fully grown (a relative term), Abigail is a delightful, energetic, puppy-like force of nature. Her nicknames span the emotional spectrum, from the affectionate “The Hua” to the cautionary “Chi-Zilla.” She thugs her way through the day with confidence earned, not given. Her primary superpower is psychological warfare: she can wear down her hoomans for treats with a stare so persistent it should come with a disclaimer. She is spoiled, adored, and gets her way approximately 99.99 percent of the time—the remaining 0.01 percent reserved for moments when we pretend we’re in charge.
Abigail’s vocabulary is, frankly, unsettling. In addition to the usual sit, paw, stay, high five, fetch, and come, she recognizes an exhaustive list of fruits, vegetables, snacks, and carb-based joy: carrot, apple, banana, blueberry, mango, papaya, melon, watermelon, honeydew, peach, squash, cucumber, zucchini, strawberry, kibble, rice, bread, cracker, chew chew, and more than science can explain. She expects a taste of whatever we’re having for supper. We are very good at not giving her people food. Emotionally, this is very hard.
She barks at dogs on television. She barks at anyone who approaches the front door. She herds family and friends into approved seated positions when they visit. Anyone who dares to stand is immediately corrected. She runs a tight ship.
Then there’s the vet. Abigail hates the vet with the passion of a thousand suns. Whether she’s receiving a vaccination or merely having her nails clipped, she wails like an opera diva meeting her tragic end in Act Three. The performance is so convincing it unsettles everyone in the waiting room—humans and animals alike—who briefly wonder if they are complicit in a crime.
Despite her dramatics, Abigail is fearless. Thunder and fireworks barely earn a head lift before she settles back into her nap. She faces icy rain, sleet, snowstorms, and three-foot snowbanks like a seasoned explorer. She does not back down from dogs many times her size, despite the obvious fact that she could be mistaken for an appetizer.
To be clear, she is usually very well-behaved. She’s wonderful with dogs her size and smaller. She respects her sister cat. She naps diligently while we work from home. She sits with us on the front porch, surveying the neighborhood like a retired sheriff. On warm afternoons, she basks in the sun on the deck, absorbing solar energy and judgment.
Car rides are not her favorite, but she tolerates a weekly hour-and-a-half drive to and from the city with stoic resignation. She dislikes having her teeth brushed but submits bravely, knowing a crunchy carrot stick awaits at the end. She hates wearing anything, yet once harnessed, she doesn’t walk—she struts, tail perfectly curled, posture immaculate, daring the sidewalk to challenge her.
She adores her Mimi and Grandpa. When we tell her they’re coming for our bi-weekly lunches, she vibrates with anticipation. She lives for rubs and scratches and is delightfully ticklish if you know the spot. She takes her monthly Interceptor pill with peanut butter like a professional. She cuddles with us in bed, sleeping deeply and dreaming vividly—her hind legs twitch and kick as she chases squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks. Perhaps, in her dreams, she’s herding sheep. Or managing us.
Abigail is our baby girl. Our joy. Our love. She is our heart, wrapped in fur and audacity. We cannot imagine life without her—and frankly, we wouldn’t be allowed to.