The Chihuahua and the St. Bernard

                      

Over the years, Shawn has “affectionately” referred to me as his little Chihuahua. Long ago, we both took an online quiz entitled “What breed of dog are you?”.  According to my results, apparently I would, in fact, be a Chihuahua. Shawn ended up being a St. Bernard, that son of a gun. He has run with this ever since—thinking it is the most accurate and hilarious thing ever. Anyone who knows me and the dogs I’ve chosen as pets over the years, knows that I’m a fan of big dogs. My beloved Caesar was a Rottweiler and no one could ever take his place in my heart. I do love all animals and dogs of all sizes, but I never imagined myself owning, and definitely not being compared to, a little yippy breed. This comparison by Shawn especially rears it’s head when I am either sleep-deprived or hungry—both of which I was last night as we sat down to dinner.

Now if you’ve ever seen a little dog in action, you’ve noticed that they have absolutely no concept of how small they are. In their mind they are as big or bigger than everyone/thing around them. Their personality almost always makes up for their size. I have seen many a big dog back down to a small one. Can you blame them? Those little buggers are quick and to the point. They have no trouble getting their point across whether it’s to get the heck away from them and their favorite chair, to NOT try to take their bone/toy away, or to just not bug them in general. They accomplish this with the ferocious look they give you out of the corner of their eye while simultaneously snarling, frantically licking their lips and baring their little razor teeth. We’ve all seen it, cracked up about it, yet in the end, yielded to it.

Shawn knows it drives me nuts when he brings up the Chihuahua thing and he tries to soften it by making it sound like it’s actually a compliment or something. He says things like “well you’re cute and little like them and you are feisty and don’t have a problem standing up for yourself”. Okay Shawn—-whatever! I know what he really means—-at least I do after contemplating the scene during last night’s dinner. . . .

I’m afraid this is more what he’s really thinking sometimes. . .

Apparently last night I was sending out the Chihuahua vibes because he was doing that “I’ll be extra nice to Sarene because I can tell she’s ready to snap and I’m scared to death right now of doing something that might set her off” thing that he does. This only makes matters worse because the extra niceness drives me crazy! Then I know that he knows exactly the mood I’m in and that my efforts to hide it from him and myself and just move on are futile. We both have to deal with it then and that is so not what I want when I’m like that. It’s also not really what he wants either. He is just slightly terror-stricken and doesn’t know what the hell else to do. I also think he is secretly amused with me and my inabiltiy to/determination not to, rationalize on ANYTHING when  I get like that.

So there we are, about to have dinner. Remember the scenario: Sarene + hunger + sleep-deprivation = Chihuahua on steroids, according to Shawn. He’s being ridiculously nice to me and I’m getting more and more irritated. I can actually feel my lips starting to curl up over my teeth a little now. He’s tip-toeing around everything we’re talking about and I’m snapping out really direct opinions and viewpoints, guarding my feelings. . . like a dog with a bone.  Anyway, I could see him start to avoid eye contact with me. He’s shifting in his seat, swallowing really hard and slow and then finally he gets up from the table. It was exactly the scenario of the big dog yielding to the little scary one snarling, or as my mom would say, “snickering”,  at him. Seconds later, up from behind me comes Shawn, my loyal, even-keeled, St. Bernard-esque husband to massage my shoulders and soothe the savage beast. He says timidly, “I’m going to let you go ahead and have a few more bites of food before I go back and sit across the table from you. . . . . .because I’m scared.”  As always, he won right then and I ended up laughing at myself. Moments later, my blood sugar had risen to happier levels and we were having a jolly good time together.

This sums him up in moments like that. . .

It always ends that way. We are just good together. Honestly, we never fight. We have tremendous respect for each other. He knows not to cross the Chihuahua in me (haha 🙂 ) and I know never to take for granted the gentle, calm strength I can depend on and love in his big dog-natured ways. He thinks before he acts. He is patient and hard-working and always sticks with things and sees them through. He knows just how to reign in my high-strung/high maintenance side and is a professional at making me laugh at myself when I start to take everything too seriously and fly off the handle. You never have to worry about him in a crowd getting upset about something someone says or does and going off on them or anything. I’m not sure he has that same confidence in me, however. I’ve seen the look of panic on his face when he knows someone has said or done something that didn’t sit well with me. He shoots me this quick glance, this nervous smile, that tells me he’s thinking, “oh god, oh god, PLEASE don’t let her say anything”. That doesn’t happen so much anymore, because his influence has made me a much more patient, mild-tempered person over the years. He has helped tone me down where I needed it. He still manages to keep a sense of humor about my ways and I love him for always accepting me for who I am and loving me anyway.

That being said, I’m still convinced that I’m just the little ankle-biter he needed in life. When something needs getting done, perhaps requiring a little “persuasion” to make it happen, guess who he elects to make the needed phonecall or visit to the party involved?  I’m proud to say that I’ve helped give him the guts to speak up in some uncomfortable situations, even if it was because he was afraid that if he wouldn’t. . . I would :). He tells me I’ve helped him gain confidence in himself and become a little bolder when going after something he wants. He even calls me his “secret weapon” sometimes. If that’s true, I’m so glad.

I guess I should be grateful for the little chihuahua part of me afterall. It’s the feisty, determined spirit that has gotten me through some really tough times and helped bring me to where I am today. It’s what keeps me from giving up, settling for less and backing down when it would be so much easier to do just that. Maybe Shawn is, in a way, complimenting me with his teasing about this and I should learn to embrace this side of myself. Thankfully for me, he obviously has :).

Hmmmm. . .after all this pondering, I’m left with one question. What do you get when you cross a Chihuahua with a St. Bernard? I guess we’ll have to wait till Liam is a little older and his personality is a little more developed to get a straight answer on that one. . . . . . . . .stay tuned.