I don't think I'll ever have a dog with as complex of a personality as Miss Emmelou Hawley. She would keep the buck goats on the farm at bay by growling at them and giving them the ol' stink eye, and my ex Steve claimed that he once found her eating a cooked pork chop that she'd stolen from who-knows-where. She craved the attention of strangers; guests who arrived at the bed-and-breakfast were often greeted in the entryway by the sight of Emme belly up, paws in the air. She almost never wanted to sit on your lap, at least not for any length of time, yet the baby of one of our guests was thrilled because when she crawled over to Emme, my girl stayed put and let the baby maul her. (The family's cat always ran away from the baby.) Emme once chased a fox from the property, and she rather purposefully took a dump outside the door of the room where the first family that brought their dog to the B&B was staying. She often kept her ears down flat in a sign of submission, but she took no shit from any dog we encountered that wanted to be starting something.
Emme had the cutest, bubble-butt-wiggling walk, and she was the Raquel Welch of corgis: She looked great even as an old lady. She loved to eat and helped keep the sidewalks clean of gum and other foodlike substances.
She bonded with Mr. Tony and got lots of affection from passers-by when we sat outside in the Village.
She was my little baby doll, and I loved her so much.