Mr. Happy Face, a Chihuahua Mix with a Mohawk

The most accomplished individual I have read about all year is a Chihuahua mix named Mr. Happy Face, who is roughly the size of a loaf of bread, sports a natural mohawk, and in 2022 was named the World's Ugliest Dog. I want to be clear that I am using the contest's word, not mine (to me he looks like a tiny wise old man who has seen some things and would like to tell you about them). But the contest gave him the title, the title came with $1,500, and I have personally never won $1,500 for anything, so between Mr. Happy Face and me, I think we all know who is winning at life.

Let me give you the resume, because the resume is the part that humbles you.

Mr. Happy Face came out of a hoarding situation. By the time he was rescued he had tumors, neurological issues, a head that he carries permanently askew, and a body that does not reliably do the standing-up-and-walking thing that most of us take for granted. He requires a diaper. A veterinarian in Arizona looked at all of this and estimated he had a few weeks to live, maybe a month (this is a real medical opinion, delivered by a real doctor, and I will be returning to it shortly).

He is now, according to the people who know him, somewhere around 17 years old.

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The math here is not in the vet's favor

I am not making this up. A trained medical professional gave this dog roughly four weeks, and Mr. Happy Face responded by living for years and then going on a press tour. I have followed nutritional advice that promised me ten extra years of vitality and could not make it through a single Tuesday without a nap and a snack I was specifically told not to have. Mr. Happy Face was handed a death sentence and treated it the way I treat the assembly instructions for furniture (glanced at it, decided it did not apply to me, proceeded to assemble a bookshelf with four extra screws and one permanent enemy).

His owner, Jeneda Benally of Flagstaff, Arizona, adopted him from a shelter where the staff actually tried to prepare her for what she was about to see. Think about that. The shelter had a pre-briefing. There was emotional onboarding involved. And she took one look at this fragile, crooked, diaper-wearing little survivor and decided, yes, that one, that is my dog (this is the correct response to a pre-briefing, and I want it on the record that I would have done the same thing, although I would also have cried in the parking lot first). She wrote that she vowed he would be so loved he would forget his old life ever happened. This is the single most competent decision in the entire story, and it was made by a human, which gives me some hope for the species.

Here is the detail that finished me off completely. According to his biography, when Mr. Happy Face is happy he makes a sound. The sound has been described as resembling a Dodge Ram diesel truck revving its engine. A small dog. Producing the noise of a PICKUP. I am not making this up. I have spent my whole life trying to express joy, and the best I have ever managed is a sort of strangled "oh nice," usually about pizza. Mr. Happy Face expresses joy at the volume of farm equipment, and I am over here clapping politely like a man at a museum.

The competition was, I will be honest, intense

This was not a low-stakes field. The 2022 contest, held at the Sonoma-Marin Fair in Petaluma, California, has been running for nearly 50 years (which makes it older than several countries and considerably more dignified than most reality television). The other contestants reportedly included a hairless dog with no teeth, a dog compared to a hyena, and a dog with what was described as a "gorilla-looking head," which I want to stress is a real description that a real person typed about a real dog on purpose.

And the judges did not even argue about it. One of them, Debra Mathy, said they did not bother debating who should win. They took one look at everything this dog had survived and just handed him the crown. The whole point of the contest, she explained, is to promote rescuing dogs, the idea being that every dog deserves to be loved regardless of crossed eyes, mismatched ears, duck waddles, or, presumably, a gorilla-looking head.

This is the part where I am supposed to be funny, and I am going to be sincere for exactly one paragraph instead, because Mr. Happy Face has earned it. A dog that nobody wanted, that a vet wrote off, that arrived broken in approximately every measurable way, ended up adored, photographed, and flown to New York City to appear on the "Today" show. He did not get there by being the strongest or the fastest or the most symmetrical. He got there by refusing to quit and by being loved by someone who saw past the briefing.

Okay. Sincerity over. We are back.

Because here is where it stops being inspirational and starts being personal. Mr. Happy Face is approximately 17 years old, holds his head at a jaunty angle, cannot reliably walk, wears a diaper, sounds like a Dodge Ram, and is internationally beloved, has been on national television, and won fifteen hundred dollars. I am a fully functional adult with a working spine and a valid driver's license, and the most exciting mail I received last week was a coupon for an oil change.

I would like a rematch. I would like it judged by Debra Mathy. And I would like everyone to know that if a crooked little Chihuahua mix who was given a month to live can become the most famous dog in the world while making truck noises, then the rest of us, frankly, have no excuse, and also no diesel engine, which is honestly the part that bothers me most.