This week’s innerview-ee, Oliver Burns, is a pure-bred-but-NOT-snob-nose Yorkshire Terrier, 8 pounds max with long, silky hair and the kinda frenly, adorable, sincere face that could put you into sugar shock it you looked at it too long.
We’d met previously at a social event so, after a proper Somebody’s At The Door Bark, Oliver trotted up for the Wag-an-Sniff.
“Hey, Bonz, great seein’ you again! Come’on IN! You know my Mommy, Susan. An this is my Daddy, Robert!”
“A pleasure everyone!” I said, an we got comfy in the livin’ room, Oliver leading the way with a wiggly prance.
“Can’t wait to hear your story,” I said, opening my notebook.
With one ear stickin’ straight up, the other haff-way flopped over, Oliver had an intrested, quiz-ickle look. “Okey-dokey, here goes,” he said, an commenced.
“I was born in MISH-ugin. It’s a state. Like Florida. But with SNOW. An Coldness. Daddy grew up with Yorkies. Mommy pruhfurred cats but Daddy’s uh-LURR-gick to ’em. So they got a Yorkie, Sneekers, a wonderful poocheroo. But, when he finally hadda go to Dog Heaven, Daddy an Mommy didn’t want to get another dog cuzza bein’ So Sad.
“Then one day Daddy was casually lookin’ through the noose-paper an saw a pickshur of a buncha Yorkie-puppers-inna-basket, owned by a Very Responsible Lady. (Needles to say, it was my litter.) Mommy an Daddy checked Us out, an I checked Them out. An We picked Each Other. I was 8 weeks old, weighed almost 1 whole pound. I could curl up in Daddy’s hand an not even hang over the edge!”
“That is a Super Crispy Biscuit Tail, Oliver!” I exclaimed. “So what happened next?”
“Well, cuzza us Yorkies being Very Smart and Easy To Train, I learned where to Do My Dooty an Where to Not pretty fast. With Minuh-mull Oopses. Up in MISH-ugin, with all that snow, Daddy hadda shovel paths for me so I wouldn’t vanish whilst on the way to Do My Dooty.”
“Sounds a liddle un-COMF-tubble,” I commented, trying not to imagine the scenario, but failing.
“Ackshully, altho us Yorkies look all delicate an stuff, we’re not. Way back WHEN, over in ING-lund, we helped farmers get rid of VAR-mints even though they were mostly bigger than us. We were FEARLESS an TUFF!”
“Woof!”
“Well, not ME, of course. I’m a totally laid back sorta poocheroo. I’m Super Cool Kibbles with fellow creatures. Ackshully, I consider myself more of a People Person, truth be told. On the rare occasion I feel Stress, I go over to my Very Big Basket of Stuffies, select one, an rip the livin’ daylights outta it, till I get to the squeaker. Then I demolish that, too. It’s my Stuffy Therapy.
Daddy’s constantly replenishin’ my stuffy supply.”
“I can see that,” I said, as he grabbed his Lambchop stuffy and shook it so fast I thought both of their heads would fly off.
“Don’t you get dizzy?” I ventured.
Lambchop went sailing and Oliver continued, “Naw. One time, Mommy was at work an Daddy was In Charge of Watchin’ me, but he lost track of my Whereabouts. He searched EVERYwhere.
Inside. Outside. Everywhere. He alerted the neighbors. He was dis-TRAWT! ‘HOW AM I GONNA TELL SUSAN I LOST THE DOG?’ Just when Daddy was about to call the puh-leece or the muh-REENS, I was discovered, peacefully snoozin’ upstairs in a patch of sunlight, innocent as the newly fallen snow.
“Before we came down here, I thought I was gonna be, you know, a Snowbirddog, but, turns out, we just came down and stayed here. I was a Snowbirddog Failure, which is totally Cool Kibbles with me. I sat in Mommy’s lap the whole way down. It was pretty fun. Plus, now I don’t get Chilly Paws when I Do My Dooty. An, should Daddy not take me out at The Appointed Time, I simply give him The Potty Stare. Works every time.
“Once, when I was off-leash in the front yard (where I’m allowed, with Mommy an Daddy for 7 a.m. coffeetime), I was gazing intently at something. Mommy said to Daddy, ‘Look, Oliver’s checkin out that liddle frog in the tree.’ An Daddy said, ‘Ack-shully, I think he’s lookin’ at that bobcat on the sidewalk.’ Mom scooped me up super-fast and rushed me inside.”
“Wise decision. You’re just a liddle snack for those Big Boys,” I said with a shudder. “So, tell me about fave foodstuffs, activities, famly, clothes, stuff like that.”
“I’d probly eat anything, but I seriously enjoy black olives; carrots are my fave. An those treats from Miss Amy at the Farmers Market on the beach. I have lotsa energy so I go out four times a day. I enjoy riding in Mommy’s bike basket. It’s the perfect size.
“When I’m chillin’, I like to listen to classical music. My favorite’s Rachmaninoff: the virtuosity, the power, the mastery of the piano. You know what I mean.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I closed it.
Oliver continued, “I don’t really wear clothes. Not my thing. However, my sister Emily, who lives in Manhattan, she sent me an NYPD pooch raincoat which I think I might make an eggs-ception for. I mean, talk about Cool Kibbles.
“I have a GREAT Furever Famly: lemme think, um, some of ’em are, my brothers Robbie and Christian an then Emily, an Aunt Mary an Capt. Rob and my liddle neff-you Damien, he’s 3. He has a cat named Henri who was rescued from some big field called Yankee Stadium. Damien calls me ‘AHH-ver’ cuz he’s still learnin’ his pro-NUNCE-munts. We do Facetime to stay in touch.
That’s way fun. Our attention spans are pretty similar.
“Anyway, When I get real sleepy at night, I sit in Mommy or Daddy’s lap till bedtime. Then I get all snuggly in my comf-tubble crate with my speshull cushion an fresh sheets.”
Heading home, I was still smiling in amazement at how much energy an joy and intresting stuff Oliver knows an does. He’s definitely carpe-ing the diem an living his best life with his Furever Famly.
Till next time,