The first dog I ever remember owning was a Pomeranian. My sister, Pat, gave him to me for my birthday. He looked like a red fox that had put his paw in a light socket and had his tail in a giant curler.
photo courtesy google search
I thought he was a noble dog. How I knew anything about nobility as a six or seven-year-old, I don't know. Maybe someone explained pedigrees to me. So I started looking for an appropriate name and there it was, on a box of crackers. Crackers. Ritz crackers. I must have heard the word Ritzy somewhere so I named him Fritzy.
And there my memories of Fritzy ends. I asked my older sister. Julie, what she remembered about Fritzy. Surely she had a better memory than me, she would have been about fifteen or sixteen.
"Wasn't he a yapper?" she said.
All little dogs seem to be yappers, it's perhaps the "short man" syndrome.
And that, my friends, is all my sister and I remember about Fritzy, the noble yapper, my first dog.
