When I was about 6 years old, my aunt let me have a puppy from the litter that her dog had just given birth to. Out of all the puppies in the bunch, I chose the little black and brown one. He was so tiny and cute, and he didn't make much noise at first.
I was about to give him a name one day when my mom said that she had already come up with a name for him. She said we should call him Jip, since that's the sound he seemed to be making every time he tried to bark. So, that's the name we went with.
He was a smart dog, and when he grew up a little bit, he sounded just as ferocious as a bigger dog would have sounded, and he was a lot tougher than some of them. He was small, but not easy to ignore.
He could also dance. We found that out one day when one of my brothers got my dad's harmonica out of his desk drawer and started playing it. As soon as Jip heard the music, he would stand up on his hind legs and twirl around and around.
He got killed a few years later when someone ran him over in the streets. It was a hit and run. The driver of the car didn't even stop after she had hit him. But my brother buried him in our back yard and marked the spot he was buried in so he'd still be near us.
R.I.P. Jip.
