The Unexpected Joy of Changing Your Mind: How a Tiny Dog Taught Me a Big Lesson
There’s something profoundly human about changing your mind. Not just tweaking your opinion on a minor issue, but fundamentally shifting how you see the world. George Bernard Shaw once said, ‘Those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.’ Personally, I think he was onto something—especially in an era where rigidity often masquerades as conviction. But here’s the thing: change rarely happens in a vacuum. It’s often a small, unexpected force that cracks open your preconceptions. For me, that force came in the form of a tiny dog named Ferdie.
Let me back up. I’ve never been a fan of small dogs. Growing up, we had what I considered ‘proper dogs’—medium-sized, loyal, and undeniably dog-like. Small dogs, especially the toy breeds, seemed like accessories, not companions. Bulgy-eyed, yappy, and often carried in handbags—why bother? I’d rather have a ferret. Or so I thought.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how deeply ingrained our preferences can be. We often mistake them for truths, as if liking or disliking something is a fixed part of our identity. But if you take a step back and think about it, preferences are just habits of thought. And habits can be broken.
Enter Ferdie. My wife, ever the dog enthusiast, started haunting chihuahua rescue sites after we dogsat a friend’s unexpectedly lovable chihuahua. I was skeptical, but something deeper was at play. It wasn’t just about getting a dog; it was about whether I was willing to let go of my stubbornness. One thing that immediately stands out is how change often feels like a surrender, but it’s actually an act of courage.
Ferdie, or Danger Mouse as he was originally known, was a two-year-old rescue with a history of behavioral issues. Raised in a family with 11 children, he’d developed severe anxieties. Great, I thought. Just what I need—a tiny dog with trust issues. But here’s where it gets interesting: Ferdie wasn’t a chihuahua at all. After a few walks, strangers started calling him a Prague ratter. A what? Turns out, Prague ratters are rare in Australia, and Ferdie’s behavior—non-barking, food-obsessed, and lap-loving—matched the breed perfectly.
What this really suggests is that sometimes we’re so busy labeling things that we miss their true nature. Ferdie wasn’t an imposter; he was just himself, a dog who defied my expectations. And that’s where the magic happened.
The best thing about toy dogs, what I never realized because I never liked them, is how much joy they bring to strangers. Walking Ferdie is like strolling with a celebrity. Kids, adults, even grumpy teenagers—everyone stops to coo and pet him. It’s like carrying around a portable happiness machine. From my perspective, this raises a deeper question: why do we underestimate the power of small things to bring people together?
Ferdie’s impact isn’t just external. At home, he’s my self-appointed bodyguard, convinced every visitor is a threat. He’s bitten my brother, my kids, and even the oven repairman. Prague ratters, it turns out, don’t respond to traditional discipline. A water spray? He nearly took my arm off. But here’s the thing: his flaws make him more endearing, not less. Nobody’s perfect, and that’s what makes us—and our pets—human.
What many people don’t realize is that dogs aren’t just companions; they’re mirrors. Historian Thomas Laqueur writes in The Dog’s Gaze that dogs ‘humanize humans.’ They bring their world into ours, making us feel less alone. Ferdie does that in spades. He’s not just a dog; he’s a reminder that change, even when it’s uncomfortable, can lead to unexpected joy.
But there’s a bittersweet twist. Prague ratters have a shorter lifespan than chihuahuas—only about 12 years. So, while I’ve come to love this tiny, quirky dog, I know our time together is limited. It’s a reminder to cherish what we have, even as we evolve.
In my opinion, the real lesson here isn’t about dogs. It’s about the capacity to change—not just our minds, but our hearts. If we can shift our affinities, our loves, our weaknesses, then we can still change the world beyond our door. Personally, I think that’s the most hopeful thing of all.
So, here I am, a self-proclaimed ‘toy-dog person,’ writing about a Prague ratter who taught me more about life than I ever expected. Change is messy, unpredictable, and often uncomfortable. But as Ferdie would tell you—if he could talk—it’s worth it.
