Things I Wish I Knew Before Getting a Chihuahua

I have owned a chihuahua for approximately four years, which is long enough to learn most of what there is to know about chihuahuas, and short enough that she is still finding new ways to surprise me. Her name is Olive. She weighs six pounds. She has rearranged my entire understanding of physics, real estate, and the heating bill. I went in thinking I was getting a small dog. What I got was a tiny, opinionated landlord who lets me live here.

She fits into places that should not exist

The first thing nobody tells you is that a chihuahua is mostly negotiable in shape. Olive can compress herself to roughly the dimensions of an envelope. I have found her under the sofa, behind the refrigerator, and once inside the box spring of the bed, which has no opening that I have ever been able to locate. I checked. There is no opening. She was in there anyway. I am not making this up.

You will spend a measurable percentage of your life on your hands and knees, talking calmly to a gap in the furniture (the gap does not answer). It eventually produces a dog, on the dog's schedule, looking mildly insulted that you interrupted.

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The trembling, and the strangers it summons

Chihuahuas tremble. They tremble when cold, when excited, when nervous, and, as far as I can tell, when simply having a normal amount of feelings. Olive trembles at the sight of a leash, the sound of cheese, and the general concept of Tuesday. This produces a side effect I was not warned about: strangers. We cannot walk one block without someone stopping to inform me, in a wounded voice, that my dog is a "poor thing." She is not a poor thing. She is vibrating because she is delighted to be outside committing crimes against squirrels. I have explained this roughly forty times (it has never once worked).

Here is the sincere part, because there is always one buried in here somewhere. A little baseline shaking is normal for the breed, but new or constant shaking is worth a vet visit. Trembling can mean cold or joy. It can also mean pain, low blood sugar, or something that wants looking at. You know your dog's normal. Trust that you noticed a change.

Reverse sneezing, or: the day I nearly called everyone I know

The first time Olive reverse sneezed, I assumed she was dying. She planted her feet, extended her neck, and made a sound like a tiny lawnmower trying to start in reverse. It lasted maybe fifteen seconds. It felt like nine hours.

It turns out reverse sneezing is usually a harmless throat spasm, and the correct response is to stay calm, which I did not do, and which I recommend doing better than I did. If it happens often, check with your vet. (The AKC has a good explainer on reverse sneezing.) I read it afterward, at 2 a.m., while the dog who caused the emergency slept the smug sleep of the fully recovered.

She LOVES heat and HATES cold, in equal and opposite extremes

Olive's primary hobby is being warm. She locates the single square of sunlight in any room with the accuracy of a satellite, then follows it across the floor all afternoon, like a very small, very lazy sundial. This escalated into what I can only describe as a heating-pad arms race. A folded blanket led to a heated blanket led to a dog who now considers room temperature a personal affront.

Cold is her sworn enemy. On a cold morning, Olive walks to the doorway, assesses the situation, and refuses, lifting her paws off the floor one at a time like the ground is made of regret. A coat helps, genuinely. It is the difference between a walk and a four-paw protest in the hallway. The wardrobe past that is negotiable. Some chihuahuas love getting dressed; some treat a jumper like a kidnapping. Olive tolerates a coat because warmth outranks dignity, but draws the line at collars she did not personally approve, which is most of them. You do not dress this dog. You submit a proposal and you wait.

The lap tyrant

I was told chihuahuas are affectionate. This is technically true the way a barnacle is "attached." Olive is a velcro dog. If I sit down, she materializes on my lap before the cushion has finished compressing. For some reason, I have never once minded.

The companionship is the whole payoff, honestly. But a caution from the bumbler who learned it the hard way: attention is a reward, and lavishing it on the clinging teaches a dog that being alone is unbearable. Praise calm independence, reward her for settling on her own, and build up small absences early, so devotion does not quietly curdle into separation anxiety.

A tiny hoarder lives here

At some point I realized Olive was running a stockpile operation. There are sticks behind the couch cushions, a piece of kibble in my left shoe placed there with intent, and treats stashed in nooks I did not know my house had. I am not making this up. She is preparing for a famine that exists only in her own small, anxious heart.

She is smarter than her reputation

The big surprise, and I mean this sincerely, is how trainable she turned out to be. The stereotype says chihuahuas are stubborn gremlins who cannot be taught anything. The reality is that Olive learns fast and forgets nothing, which is a different thing entirely. Potty-training was easier than the internet led me to fear. Reward-based training works on her like magic, and correction works on her like an insult she intends to remember. She is not dumb. She is a contractor who only works for cheese.

The TEETH

Nobody warned me about the teeth. A chihuahua has a small, crowded mouth holding roughly the standard number of dog teeth in roughly half the standard amount of room. The real risk with the breed is not the dramatic stuff. It is dental disease, quietly, over years.

So you brush, starting early, before the dog forms strong opinions, which Olive formed immediately anyway. You offer dental chews. You let the vet do cleanings. (The AKC has a solid guide to dog dental care.) I brush Olive's teeth nightly. She regards this as a hate crime. We do it anyway, because I am the adult here, allegedly.

She trains me, not the other way around

Here is the thing nobody admits about the routine. You think you are training the dog. The dog is training you. Olive expects dinner at the same minute every evening, and if I am late, she stares with the patient disappointment of a creditor. I have a rule now that I call the three-times rule. Do anything nice for a chihuahua three times in a row, at the same time, and you have not done a nice thing. You have signed a contract. The third sunset walk becomes a permanent obligation. I have an entire daily schedule built out of things I did exactly three times.

She does not know she is small

The last thing, and the most important, is that Olive has no idea she is six pounds. In her mind she is a Doberman. She will march up to a Great Dane and explain, at length, who is in charge, and the Great Dane will look down at her the way you look down at a loud houseplant.

This is funny right up until it is not, so this part I mean plainly. A chihuahua's confidence wildly outranks her body, and big dogs play rough by accident. It is your job to keep the distance she will not keep for herself. She thinks she is enormous. You are the one who has read the actual numbers.

Which is the whole arrangement, really. Olive runs the house, the schedule, the thermostat, and the wardrobe approvals. I handle the paperwork and the part where I lie on the floor at midnight, talking gently to the gap behind the refrigerator, waiting for it to produce a dog.