Year of Firsts: In defense of carrying small dogs

Walking my dog can be arduous exercise. For me, not the dog. Whenever I walk him, I can’t get more than 10 feet without someone wanting to stop and talk.
“Ooooh, what IS it?” asks a woman on the sidewalk in front of the Press-Banner office on Scotts Valley Drive.
It was 20 minutes before I could break away and get back to work.
Chancey is a toy “min pin,” or miniature pinscher, and he’s the size of a Chihuahua. But unlike Elle Woods’ decorous Bruiser in the movie “Legally Blonde,” he can be hyperactive, hypersensitive and hyper-aggressive. Chancey believes he weighs 300 pounds, not 3, and is therefore king of the dog pile. This always takes considerable explaining.
So I end up carrying him a lot. His little head pokes out of my jacket so he can watch the big world go by, and I get the benefit of his quirky companionship. I carried him into REI in Berkeley the other day, right past the sign that says “Service Animals Only,” and no one said a word.
In a real way, Chancey is a service dog. He’s a comfort. A small comfort, maybe, but a big joy to have around.
I say this in my own defense because of the animal lover who dressed me down recently on Seabright Beach. It was Chancey’s first visit to the ocean, and he was not amused.
He growled, he hissed, he tried to bite anything and everything around him, including the gorgeous collie someone was trying to photograph next to the surf. As I tried to scoop Chancey out of the sand he was kicking up in all directions, he squealed as if he were the victim.
“Oh, you’re hurting him, you’re hurting him!” his would-be savior intervened, pushing in and trying to protect him. I felt like I’d committed the crime of Public Dog Abuse.
In fact, Chancey is a tough little cuss. He loves to be loved, but he also loves to be hated. He is, after all, a 3-year-old rescue dog who spent the past year with me quaking uncontrollably every time a man walked by. He’s better now and even lets my dad pet him, but he suffered terrible abuse in his previous life and isn’t about to let anyone forget it.
Meanwhile, Chancey is dog-matic about bulldozing under the covers at night and ferocious as a Tasmanian devil should anyone approach him in the dark. He even attacks me if I get out of bed and forget to turn on the light. Anyone who comes close to abusing his comfort gets it! We make a good pair, because I like my comfort, too.
I just want that woman on the beach with the impeccably groomed show dog to know that Chancey isn’t for show. He’s a working dog. He protects me, he comforts me, he keeps me happy.
We’ve got to go now, as we have some Black Friday shopping to do. Chancey can smell a good deal from a mile away. Like I said, he’s a service dog.
• Year of Firsts is an occasional column by Cheri O’Neil Matthews, dog lover and publisher of the Press-Banner, who recently moved to Scotts Valley. She’s a longtime newspaper editor and reporter who serves on the board of the California Press Association. Reach her at

ch***@pr*********.com











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