I've been watching the "Storm Chasers" marathon on Discovery all day (instead of working on the car). At one point there was a commercial with one of those horrible little "purse dog" creatures.
After waiting more than 10 minutes for AT&T's crappy Internet service to load the Blog page, I can finally extoll the virtues of a Proper Dog.
The "Proper Dog"--if I were to have a dog--would be a trained German Shepherd, mostly because of one we had when I was younger than toddler age. While men were walking on the Moon, we had a police-trained Shepherd named Queen. I vaguely remember that she was black and as big as a Clydesdale. She was in a big fenced pen in the back yard.
Neighborhood kids would piss her off by walking past and dragging sticks on the fence.
My sister at some point picked up a stick to throw...and Queen just stared at her and growled, obviously meaning, "You put that down right now, nice and slow, and I'll let you live."
I picked up a stick. No reaction. I sat there next to the dog and bonked her on the head with that stick--tap, tap, tap--and she just looked put-upon: "*sigh*...Kids."
Some other time, she was in the house. My grandmother came over to babysit so Mom could go out and get away from us kids for the evening. Mom had a quick errand to run first...and when she came back, my Grandmother was still standing in the same spot, with Queen providing helpful growls.
I wish I could remember her better. She sounds like a hell of a dog.
So no, no contemptible chihoo-a-hoo-as, no yappers, no screech-dogs like that long-haired miniature freak my neighbor has. That's not a dog. Well, not a Proper Dog.