Meet Moxy, the dog who started it all.
Some people claim they have the sweetest pet in the world.
The kind who is so patient, so gentle, they can be left unattended with toddlers. The kind who would never dream of biting someone. The kind who allows butterflies to softly land on the tip of their nose, undisturbed.
Yeah, that wasn't the case with Moxy.
Though he was but little, he was fierce.
True to his Chihuahua breed, Mox was territorial, in denial of his 10-pound size, and couldn’t abide children under the age of 12. His demand for attention and belly rubs was insatiable, and his stubbornness rivaled any willful three-year-old refusing to eat veggies. He was the world’s pickiest dog, known to turn up his nose at steak. He literally talked back when annoyed with you. For him, potty pad placement was more of a guideline. Full of mischief and too smart for his own good, he relished stealing treats, playing tug-of-war, and humping the arms or legs of would-be suitors.
Hey, he knew what he wanted.
To achieve his goals, Mox chewed through doors and blinds, dug up (and marked) carpets, and leapt over baby gates four times his size. He snored. He hogged the bed. He tore holes in my favorite underwear. He cheated at “fetch.” Most of the time, he’d only eat if he was hand-fed. He had more frequent flyer miles than the average human. He’d jealously step on an unassuming Teddy in your lap to usurp all affection for himself or insert himself between you and a gentleman caller when kissing (hence the nickname “Moment Killer”). If you were careless enough to upset him, he’d snap and growl like a little demon dog, and you’d likely find a “revenge poo” waiting on your pillow later, perfectly centered.
But most of the time, Moxy was a shameless charmer.
I always imagined that had Mox been human, he’d have a scarlet smoking jacket and a pipe that blew bubbles. On walks, he had a certain high-stepping swagger that turned heads, like one of the Bee Gees. When I’d cry (or pretend to cry), he’d come rushing over to lick my entire face until I calmed down. When he sensed someone around me had ill intentions, he’d put his little body between us and bark fiercely, showing his teeth—as though he was my guardian, my personal protector. When I’d dance around the room, he’d join me, either bouncing up and down on his hind legs or letting me sway him in my arms, waltz-style.
Mox was closer to me than my own shadow:
he’d lie on the bathmat while I showered, sit on my lap while I read, rest his head on my leg while I worked. At night, he’d curl tightly against my stomach under the blanket, and in the morning, he’d drape himself across my neck like a feather boa. In fact, he made sure some part of his little body was touching mine at all times. His greetings were exuberant whether I was gone for 10 minutes or 10 hours. And he truly loved (most) people—he’d sidle up next to you and topple into your lap, expecting all of the love and scratches. Not being totally adored never occurred to him.
Yep, regal, quirky, and oh-so-spoiled, sometimes Moxy could be a real jerk.
And god, I love him for it.
It was Mox’s totality, his essence, that kept things interesting. Incredibly challenging, frequently maddening, but always interesting. He definitely lived up to both his names (Moxy Pooh) in ways I could never have foreseen (and perhaps didn’t intend)—the moxiest of us all.
And I know he’s still with me. His legacy continues.
