I got the small dog itch in part because a lot of my friends up here – big men in trucks – melt like ice cubes when they talk about their small dogs. The septic man has five corgis in his truck when he comes around, Greg Burch, a long-time logger, rides with J.D. the pug, John Halloron, a big touch ex-NYPD officer who installs and cleans wood stoves, bursts into tears every time he mentions the bulldog that died last year.

Some of these big and powerful men cry just talking about their small dogs, and they are not, as a rule, given to emotion.

I am not a big touch man in a big truck but my friend Bob, who works at the dump is, and he nearly went to pieces when he met Gus at the recycling station yesterday.  Bob is one of the nicest people I have ever known – he gives biscuits to every dog who comes through the dump.

But he just glows when he talks about his dogs. And mine.

Maybe I have a secret desire to be tough, or to have a big truck (I had one once in Hebron, but it was a disaster) but I am curious to explore this phenomenon with Gus. I think it may be a key to understanding the complex and sometimes hobbled male psyche.

Perhaps it is the male equivalent of “cute” or “endearing.”  Perhaps it’s the size or the outsized ego of small dogs. Bob got the full Gus treatment yesterday, Gus wanted to chew on his beard. Bob loved every minute of  it, then went back to hauling giant trash bags out of trucks.

I’d like to be a big man like Bob.