My Dog Is A Born Entertainer. Or A Horribly Misdiagnosed Autistic.

Our miniature pinscher Petey is the "middle child" in the house, sandwiched between two very cliquish chihuahuas. Since we brought Chihuahua #2 (Orlando Loco, who's a blog entry unto himself) into the house, Petey's already idiosyncratic behavior has added several nuttier layers.

The wife will pick him up and cradle him for some one-on-one attention. His response, delivered via canine body-language, is to compress himself into this misshapen black beanbag with ears. He looks like an obese bat.

But he saves the real eccentricity for when she places him gently back onto the floor. At this point, an outsider would probably think he's chasing his tail. But, given the fact that he has only a pinscher-y stub in that location, a stub that he's always had, what he's really doing is checking to see that his entire rear region is still there and intact.

Petey's next move is to scratch at the backdoor until you address his need to go outside and open that door. Only, he's got no interest in going outside to pee or whatever. Instead he will only cock his head, looking at you like you've loosened the top on the salt shaker of his universe. And then he waits until we're not looking and pees all over the front of our kitchen trash can.