Humor

My Doggy DNA Results are in, and They are Shocking.

You may want to “sit” for this one.

My dear fellow canines,

As leader of the pack at this dog park, I write to you to let you know that my doggy DNA test results are in. Since I was but a young pup, I had always wondered what sort of different breeds my ancestors were. I was adopted at the young age of four months and christened “Fluff.” It was as idyllic a situation as a dog could imagine: yard, toys, the works. As much as I loved my human parents, I sometimes wondered about my biological family. You can imagine, then, the thrill that wiggled through me from nose to tail when my parents announced that they had purchased for me a canine DNA test. “Finally!” I thought to myself, “No more mystery! No more will I simply be an unknown terrier mix.’’

I was so enthusiastic that I put up only the tiniest fuss when my cheek was swabbed. This completely astounded the adopted familia, as I had long ago set the precedent that (veterinarian’s orders be damned) not a soul would brush my teeth. I lay on my bed in a sun-soaked daze, dreaming of what knowledge would return in that white envelope. Who were my family, what could they have been? Were they fox terriers, stirring rabbits from their holes alongside the hunt? Could they have been huskies, traversing the Iditarod in a thundering pack? I know that one seems unlikely given my fourteen-pound lanky frame, but I’ve always imagined myself to be big in spirit. Perhaps, I thought, they were even corgis. Not a profoundly useful dog, but they hang out with the queen and that’s not nothing.

It took about fourteen weeks (or two weeks, if you’re counting in human years) for the results to be returned. In hindsight, I should have known that any message delivered by the blue-clad postal fiend cannot contain good news. The mail was delivered and I quickly grabbed the white envelope and snuck in into my hiding space under the couch. The humans searched for it, but they hadn’t found the two chicken bones from last week or the single slipper I took at Christmas, so I knew my stash was safe.

Later that night, I tip-tapped my way out of the crate and over to the letter. “Dachshund, 8%.” Not a strong start but, other than the nickname “weiner dog”, not offensive either. “Schnauzer, 8%.” In truth I expected this, I’ve always looked good in a beard and I’ll admit to mild anxiety issues. “Poodle, 16%.” Now we were getting somewhere! Before my daydreams could drift to fluffy haircuts and westminster glory, the next number caught my eye. “68%- Chihuahua.” WHAT?! Surely, this can’t be right. I cocked my head to the side, hoping to change the image before me. I cocked my head further, but I still didn’t understand! “68%- Chihuahua.” It remained. I staggered. How could this be? A Chihuahua?! The smallest, most annoying of dogs? A surge of anger filled me and I let out a howl… but it wasn’t a howl. For the first time in my life I heard my majestic bark for what it was: not a howl but a yip. Worse even, it was a yap. I was a yappy dog. Could it be?

I thought back to when the mail had arrived, and I had unleashed my ferocious barking on the blue-clad postal fiend. I suddenly remembered that he had not cowered in fear, but had in fact rolled his eyes. Rolled his eyes! At the time I thought what a fool he had been to tempt an intimidating beast such as myself, but now I saw that to him I was no more than a skinny toothpick of a dog just waiting to be popped into a purely ornamental doggy-sweater.

I know this may come as a shock to some of you, who have deferred to me as leader and protector of this pack. You may wonder if I have considered resigning my post, perhaps giving way to Buddy the Golden Retriever. At first I was also shook, but the more I thought about it, the less worried I became. This experience has only strengthened my belief in myself as a pack leader. Where the golden-haired Buddy is a sycophantic yes-dog, I am a literal boss bitch. Chihuahua’s are opinionated, vocal, and have confidence of a dog ten times their size. They are unapologetic and beloved by humans and dogs alike. I’m a petite powerhouse and if you have a problem with that, you can take it up with me and my friends, the shihtzus and the papillons. So yes, I am a Chihuahua-mix. While this DNA test came as a surprise, I’m glad I got it. I’ll wear my “68% Chihuahua” proudly, likely embroidered on a pink doggy-vest.

Ever your pack leader,

Fluff