The flapdoodle in our household began when my friend asked about our potentially rescuing Buffy, whose elderly owner had died. 

As his owner grew weak and debilitated, Buffy was relegated to the horse barn. He had already lost most of his “inside” manners and was nearly feral when we picked him up.

If Buffy was compatible with our senior dogs, we would keep him ourselves. Either way, we would at least help place a Yorkie who seemed to know he possessed star power. This Buffy was no vampire slayer — just a tiny, prickly terrier, I cooed when we met.

Looks, dear readers, can be deceptive.

The pup was small enough to fit in my workbag. That is, if I could have wrestled the toffee-colored charmer, as strong and feisty as a Tasmanian devil, into it. He seemed determined to remain with the horses, which was not an option. I coaxed him into my arms, and we returned to Greensboro to introduce him to our pack.

Of course, this all happened just as we were leaving for a long-planned vacation. Our dogsitter agreed to tend to a third dog — along with our deaf and blind senior mutt and aging mini-Schnauzer. 

We swiftly learned Buffy had no desire to adapt to our older, cranky territorial dogs. On return from our weeklong trip, most of the first floor and furniture had been marked by an ambitiously assertive Buffy. Several wooden floors were damaged. Worse, Buffy was not just a terrier, but a terror.

The dogsitter was exasperated. Buffy, she reported, was incorrigible. She suspected, as we did, that Buffy had never been socialized, accustomed to being the one and only alpha dog.

Weeks later, chaos continued. 

We reluctantly decided to find a loving home where Buffy, the cutest possible anarchist, could happily dominate.

Working with a pet daycare, we distributed flyers with a picture of photogenic Buffy explaining his history. We stressed what seemed best, an older owner with no other dogs. Unless we found such a home, Buffy would remain with us. With the help of the doggie daycare staff, we began fielding eager interviews.   

One day, the daycare called to tell us that a retired lady had come in seeking to adopt, having lost a previous Yorkie who “looked exactly like Buffy.”

She was a cutie herself; the perfect match! Buffy seemed to agree, practically jumping into the woman’s arms at first meeting. My heart soared. After subsequent meetings and checking references, we packed up Buffy’s new bed, bowls and toys. The duo left all smiles — even the tiny terror seemed to grin.

Periodically, I checked on Buffy. They were happily ensconced in Raleigh, her new owner reported. But trouble in paradise ensued. 

“I’m concerned about Buffy,” the woman announced over the phone one night without preamble. 

Uh-oh. Here it comes, I thought. Was it his old habit of peeing on furniture?

Was he unwell? Nope, Buffy’s health was excellent. She nervously cleared her throat. He has issues, she said.

“I took him to Bible study with me, just like I used to take my Alfie. But, Buffy acted horribly.”

What had happened? I gulped.

“I don’t want to say, it’s so vulgar,” she answered. Vulgar? A Yorkie?

Finally, she spoke. “Buffy humped his toy! Right there at Bible study. Everybody saw it.”

I joked. “Maybe Buffy isn’t a Baptist?” 

The woman was unamused.

We agreed to talk in a few days, and I suggested Buffy not accompany her to the meetings. Wouldn’t that resolve it?

The next time we talked, Buffy’s owner remained upset, despite admitting that otherwise, his behavior was mostly good. 

“He has a sex problem,” she reluctantly reported. “Buffy likes to sleep on the chaise in my bedroom, right where Alfie slept.” 

I took a deep breath, completely uncertain where this was going.

“He looks straight at me and humps his toy. Like he’s goading me. It’s indecent!” she cried.

My heart broke for the miscreant Yorkie. I told her I would come for him.

“No,” she replied slowly. “He’s testing me. But I’ll keep praying on it.”

Eventually a détente was reached. I wasn’t sure I had to know exactly how. 

Still . . . I wondered. Was Buffy back in Bible study? Was he swaddled like Alfie on the chaise, peeking innocently at his devout owner?

I considered the many reasons she relented: Buffy’s button nose? His bright little eyes? That perky swagger! 

Or did Buffy leverage the power of the unrepentant? For, as my God-fearing Baptist grandmother said, “The good Lord sure does love a sinner.”  OH

Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor to O.Henry magazine.