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Twenty-three hours to yee-haw.
When we were looking around for a dog, I was imagining a nice big one, like a Labrador or a German Shepherd, or at least a small dog with some rumble-tumble characteristics, like a pug or a bulldog.
But when my son saw a parent with Bichon Frisé at sports lessons that summer, he fell in love with the fluffy little puppy. And once the others in the family were on board, no amount of coaxing or cajoling was going to bring them back to their senses on the topic of dog breed.
So we got a Bichon Frisé.
And then, 23 hours later, I found myself walking the fluffy little guy on the grass next to a gas station in California farm country, purple leash in hand, waiting for him to sniff out a spot to ... well ... tinkle.
Precisely at that moment, two good ol' boys roared around the corner in a rusty red Ford F150 pickup truck, the passenger hanging most of his upper body out of the window and looking me in the eye, yelling "yeeeee haaaaaw".
And that was my introduction to small dog life.
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