You know how there are seeing eye dogs and other therapy dogs? Well, I'm a sob story dog. I'm good at listening to stories. Whenever Bonnie feels sad, she would recount her sob story to me and then she would feel better. I'm a good sob story dog. I never repeat her stories to anyone. I got so good at it that she decide to make an artwork out of me. This is really creepy, but she made a paper toy based on my image, so other people could have their own versions of a sob story dog.
I was born in the O.C., the runt of a litter of yellow labs. Something scary and interesting about me is that my tail was partly bitten off by my mom when I was a puppy. It was an accident, or so I was told. When I was about three months, a girl and her brother came to take me away from my mom. Ever since then, I was a bit afraid of being in cars, because it reminded me of the last time I saw her. But now I have a new mom.
I came to know that I live in the city of Chino Hills. My mom is Bonnie and her brother is Kelvin. He moved away shortly after I was adopted, so I don't get to see him often. Only about once a year, he returns for a short visit from the faraway. I live a really good life. From my backyard, I could see a view of Chino Hills. I got so used to see everything from above that I was quite scared the first time I saw a llama. Yes, they have llamas in my neck of the woods.
More recently, I grew a cyst on the side of my cheek. I scared everyone and Bonnie had to take me to the emergency room. I think it was insensitive that the doctors told me my prognosis right in front of me. But I don't blame them, because they didn't know that I'm a sob story dog. I know the language. At any rate, I'm okay to know that I might be dying. I'm a brave dog that way. Friends told me that a smaller dog has the same thing I have, a cyst, two years ago. That dog is still alive. So there is hope.
Lately, I don't know what has gotten in Bonnie, but she has been baking doggie biscuits like crazy. Now in my old age, I get to be the taste-tester of all her treats. I almost forgot to tell you: I'm called Chiquita, or "the smaller one" because I'm originally from a Spanish speaking family. That's right, I know Spanish too. Anyway, they knew I was going to be adopted, so they called me "chiquita" to differentiate me from my mom. The name stuck, so here I'm at 67 years old in human years and not really "chiquita" anymore.