Who doesn’t love Yorkies? I’m 80 years old now, but when I bought Pixie from Before the Bridge dog rescue, I was 74.

It’s been my privilege to have at least a dozen dogs, often three at a time, I considered family, since my middle son, Laury, was born in 1966. That year, my husband, Don, and our firstborn, Michael, moved from St. John’s Avenue in Winnipeg to St. Andrews, Manitoba, Breezy Pt Rd, north of Selkirk to be more precise. Mostly our canine family ranged in size from medium to large; rarely did we have small dogs. Those we did have were Pomeranian-x, and terrier-x.

Maggie, a standoffish girl, lost her companion, Snoopy, in the fall of 2016. I immediately began the search for a replacement buddy. I casually mentioned to my cousin, Verdie, my wish to experience a Yorkie as my next dog-child. As luck would have it, her daughter, Linda, volunteered for Before the Bridge Rescue. More luck followed when a Yorkie became a ward of the rescue. Linda immediately forwarded her picture to me, and I didn’t hesitate with adoption procedures.

Her foster mom brought her to a shopping mall in Winnipeg’s north end. “If her derp bothers you”, she remarked tersely, “I’ll just take her back with me.” I assured her I was fine with it. I felt concern, though, her tongue would get too dry. In case you’re unaware, a derp happens when there are no teeth to fence the tongue in, at which point it always hangs out to one side.

Maggie accepted her immediately from the second I placed her on the floor in the kitchen, as though Pixie had merely been away for a little while. I fussed about dry or soaked kibble vs wet food. She soon proved able to eat and digest whatever I put into her dish. And so our love affair began.

Energy in a pint-sized, almost hairless, five pound dog, with unlimited heart, is what I had. Mice stood no chance once she discovered them, in spite of being almost toothless.