By a man who has been outsmarted daily by a creature the size of a loaf of bread

For seven years now, I have lived with a small, fluffy dictator named Georgie.

He is, on paper, a Shih Tzu–Bichon mix. Which sounds delightful and harmless, like something you’d order with tea. In reality, he is a 20-pound bundle of attitude, theatrical outrage, and unwavering belief that he is, in fact, in charge of everything within a three-mile radius.

He recently had his birthday at the beginning of February. Seven years old. Which, in dog terms, means he is now a seasoned professional in the art of manipulation.

And yet—every single day—it is still a wonder to have him around.

Mornings, for instance, do not begin with an alarm clock. No. They begin with Georgie performing what can only be described as interpretive excavation… on my pillow.

He doesn’t bark. He doesn’t whine. That would be crude.

Instead, he “digs.” Gently. Persistently. Like a tiny archaeologist convinced there is a lost civilization buried somewhere beneath my left ear.

You try to ignore it. You can’t. It’s psychological warfare.

So eventually, you wake up.

And there he is.

Big, round eyes. Enormous. The sort of eyes that suggest innocence, curiosity, and absolutely no involvement in the chaos that is about to unfold. Eyes that say, “Good morning, Dad. I have done nothing wrong. Also, we are late.”

Then comes the walk.

Now, most dogs walk. Georgie does not walk. Georgie conducts inspections.

He steps outside and immediately transforms into a neighborhood supervisor. Chest out. Head high. Strutting along like he owns not just the street, but possibly the entire municipality.

Every bush must be examined. Every tree assessed. Every scent catalogued like he’s building a case file.

Somewhere in the distance, a squirrel panics.

Squirrels, in Georgie’s world, are not just squirrels. They are criminals. Nervous, twitchy felons who dart about like they’ve just remembered they left the stove on. Georgie watches them with the intensity of a detective who’s been on the case for years.

Raccoons, meanwhile, are the shady night operators. Little masked bandits who rummage through bins like they’re planning a heist. Georgie doesn’t trust them. Frankly, neither do I.

And then there are the birds.

Arrogant, chirping little commentators perched on branches, offering what I can only assume are deeply sarcastic remarks about Georgie’s life choices. He stares at them as if to say, “Come down here and say that to my face.”

They never do.

Now, at some point during the day—mid-morning, perhaps, or early afternoon—Georgie will decide that another walk is required.

This is not communicated verbally.

He simply stares at you.

And I mean stares.

A look so powerful, so loaded with expectation and mild disappointment, that saying no feels like a violation of several international treaties.

You resist. Briefly.

Then you give in.

At which point he performs a small, celebratory jump—like a tiny, furry rocket—before marching directly to where his leash is kept, glancing back as if to say, “Try to keep up.”

Of course, it’s not all sunshine and butterflies.

Georgie has enemies.

Chief among them: a Bernese Mountain Dog named Zeke.

Now, Zeke is approximately the size of a small horse. One hundred and fifty pounds of lumbering, well-meaning chaos.

Georgie, at 20 pounds, should—by all known laws of physics and common sense—be intimidated.

He is not.

The moment he sees Zeke, he erupts.

Barking. Leaping. Fully animated. It’s less a reaction and more a declaration of war.

“LET ME AT HIM,” he seems to shout. “LET HIM HAVE IT. I WILL END THIS.”

It’s deeply confusing, because I am the one holding him, often lifting him above my head like some sort of offering to the gods, while Zeke looks on, vaguely puzzled.

To be fair, there is history. Zeke has attacked him before—twice—like an overenthusiastic freight train escaping a very small owner. So Georgie’s outrage is, in part, justified.

Still, the confidence is… remarkable.

Then there’s Caio.

A Labrador. Lovely dog. Friendly. Permanently smiling, as though he’s just heard the world’s best joke.

And yet, for reasons known only to Georgie and possibly a secret council of dogs, Caio is also on the list.

Why? No idea.

Perhaps there was an incident. A misunderstanding. A disagreement over a bush. Maybe Caio said something deeply offensive in dog language.

Whatever it was, Georgie has not forgiven him.

Now, leaving the house is an entirely different ordeal.

You tell Georgie you’re going.

And he looks at you.

Not just a look. A performance.

Eyes wide. Slight tilt of the head. The unmistakable expression of a being who has just been informed that he has been abandoned forever.

“If you leave,” the look says, “I shall be devastated. Utterly. And it will be entirely your fault.”

You feel guilty. Of course you do. You’re not a monster.

But you leave anyway.

And when you come back?

Pandemonium.

He’s at the door, vibrating with excitement. His entire body wagging—not just the tail, the whole dog—like he’s briefly forgotten how physics works.

He jumps. Spins. Performs what can only be described as a mid-air pirouette. A full routine. Olympic-level enthusiasm.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s wonderful.

His favorite places? The dog park, naturally. A social hub of sniffing, strutting, and subtle judgment.

But also the museum district of Richmond, where he walks with that same bouncy confidence, greeting other dogs, acknowledging humans, occasionally pausing as if to appreciate the cultural significance of it all.

Or, more likely, a particularly interesting smell.

And then, at the end of the day, after the final walk, after dinner, after the last patrol of the kingdom…

He settles.

Right next to me on the couch.

I’ve got my tea. Something mindless is playing on television. And there he is—curled up, warm, content, occasionally sighing like a man who has had a very long and important day.

Which, in his mind, he has.

And if you look at him—really look—you can almost hear it:

“That was a good day, Dad.”

Pause.

“Let’s do it again tomorrow.”

And you know what?

You absolutely will.

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