When I first got Nicky from a shelter (a corner of someone's barn) in very rural northeastern Vermont, she'd apparently been ripped off the teat a bit early. I could easily hold her in the palm of one hand. She was so tiny, despite my ongoing rule of no dogs on the furniture, I'd hold her in my lap in my easy chair while she slept. I couldn't resist. When she woke and started gnawing my fingers or climbing all over me, I'd set her on the floor. Nicky quickly learned to manipulate me.
She grew at the rate puppies who'll become large dogs grow, and in a few weeks, she demonstrated great cunning (and charm). She'd wait until I was comfortable in my easy chair, leap up into my lap, and immediately feign sleep. She'd learned I wouldn't put her down if she were asleep.
It was very funny. I could flip her over, hold her upside down, jiggle her little body, sing her name...Nicky would remain limp and "asleep." I recall laughing so hard my stomach hurt. She "slept" through that too. In the end, she established a tradition I loved, where every night, she'd curl up with me in my chair.
Once she'd grown, I'd sit at my computer writing for hours and hours, while Nicky lay faithfully at my feet, waiting patiently. When her patience finally wore out, or her stomach growled, or her bladder filled, she knew how to get me out of that office chair. She'd circle behind me, jump up, put a paw on each shoulder from behind, and begin to clean my ears. A dog tongue in my ear is a certain way to get me on my feet. Then she could lure me outside with her energy, and we'd romp and play.
Nicky was a special part of my life for 13 years, and I still think of her often. I miss so much about her, even the way she manipulated me.