Dispute over dog’s breed settled with DNA test
As I write this, our adopted dog Maisie is asleep by my side on our couch. There is thunder and lightning outside, and I guess she thinks she’s safe by me. Maisie weighs 10 pounds soaking wet and has white fur with brown spots and brown ears. She came to us via a flea market after being found on the streets of Albuquerque by our daughter.
She is definitely a mutt of a particular persuasion: loyal, bossy around our other dogs and occasionally full of energy. She gleefully tears apart toys, shaking them to death and then leaps over the couch and lies there panting. On our walks, she leads the pack.
We’ve endlessly discussed what kind of dog Maisie is. I held out for some sort of terrier. My daughters mused about Maisie being at least part Maltese. But Laurie, my wife and knowledgeable of all breeds, said, “I think she might be part Chihuahua.”
This stopped me in my tracks. “Wait. We have a Chihuahua?”
It’s not that I don’t appreciate Chihuahuas and their owners, it’s just that, well, I have a history with them. After 30 years on the fire department, the only dog that really went after me on a call was an upset Chihuahua. We pulled him from a minor car accident. He, of course, was terrified, but he turned that fear into rage at me. I had to hold him at arm’s length while he tried with all his might to get at my head. Fortunately, I had bunker gear and a helmet on. We ended up putting him in my truck for safekeeping, which turned out to be a mistake. He wouldn’t let me back into the truck. There was a lot of sprinting back and forth and barking and growling. Suffice it to say it all ended well once the dog’s owner was deemed OK and his girlfriend showed up at our station and mollified the dog. But it left a psychic mark on me. As you can imagine, I was less than thrilled to think that we might have a Chihuahua in our house.
Thus I did what any reasonable person would do when faced with information that was upsetting: denial.
“She’s a terrier,” I exclaimed over and over again, “maybe with some Jack Russell.”
After a few days of my irrational behavior, Laurie finally cut me short and said. “Well, there is only one way to tell for sure. Let’s do a DNA test.”
Here is the problem with dealing with facts: You often discover that you’re wrong.
DNA testing for dogs is a relatively new innovation. You can buy DNA kits (just like the human ones) for $60 to $150. Whereas human DNA kits can help discover where your ancestors are from, a dog DNA kit can help identify the breed or breeds.
There are a couple of important caveats when dealing with dog DNA tests. First, the higher the variety of breeds in the makeup of a dog, the less accurate the DNA test will be. Second, the more breeds the DNA company has in its database, the more accurate the test will be, but it will also be more expensive.
So why, you ask, is it remotely worth the money to test your dog? To win arguments, obviously, which is priceless. And knowing the breed or breed mix of your dog may also help you predict certain genetic disease issues.
We ordered a medium-priced kit, took a swab sample of Maisie’s saliva and sent it off to the lab. While we waited, the debate continued. I think my daughter called me a “breedist” because of my steadfast belief that Maisie just couldn’t be the same breed of dog as the one that attacked me.
But of course, as in many things, I was wrong. The report came back, and Maisie was 50 percent Chihuahua, 12 percent miniature poodle and the remainder was what the DNA company called “companion dogs,” a mixture of all kinds of small dogs.
So mostly Chihuahua — but not all! I took that as a win. But in the end, it makes no difference what breed or mix Maisie is. She is a well-loved member of our family and an awesome small dog. Did I mention that she has these dark eyes that stare into your soul? Is that a Chihuahua thing?
For more writings by Hersch Wilson on dogs, firefighters and life, go to herschwilson.com. Contact him at hersch.wilson@mac.com.