Pippin is a dog, but he's not my dog. Neither is he yours.
Pippin belongs to no one but himself.
He is a fiery red Pomeranian, with the floof of a thousand teasings, and feet like tiny Chiclets.
Pippin walks his man; his man does not walk him.
His man knows this which is why the relationship works.
They are roommates and peers, there is no ownership, and they are on life's journey together.
Sometimes I wonder how these two found each other. Obviously one is a poli-sci major at the local college, but the man looks like he might be in college also.
The man is friendly and greets neighbors warmly, as if encouraging us to engage. Pippin runs up as if he enjoys chatting also.
However, if you dare to touch him or even look him in the eye, he unleashes barking as savage as a pit bull who just swallowed a thousand helium balloons. I mean, it's quiet and hard to hear, but if you lean in, you can really feel the rage.
My daughter and I have spent many a morning discussing what would happen to Pippin if he landed in water...not that we would throw him, mind you, he just has the look that sinking is an impossibility. His fluffiness is astounding, and she's sure if you shaved him, he'd be nothing more than a bean with a nose and feet.
I am obsessed with Pippin.
I won't stop evangelizing until you are too.