Meet Pixie.
Hi. I'm Pixie. I'm six pounds, very busy, and frankly responsible for most of the interesting things that happen around here. I chase squirrels. I steal socks. I occasionally acquire toilet paper. I borrow my brother's bully stick. I meet everyone. And if you happen to be sitting there ignoring me, I have a highly effective ankle-based communication system.
The adoption story.
Warm, lightly humorous, and entirely true. Narrated by the humans, with a footnote from Pixie.
Pixie came into our family almost by accident — which is, frankly, how she prefers all her entrances. A family needed to rehome her. A friend happened to see the post, sent the picture, and that was that. If that friend had not sent me Pixie's photo, we would never have known she existed.
I showed the photo to my husband the next day. His entire response was, essentially: “When are we picking her up?” It was not, by any reasonable measure, a convenient time to add a puppy to the family.
But our son wanted one badly, and we thought a tiny new companion might be wonderful company for Tupak — who had just turned fifteen, blind and deaf, and the most patient soul in the house. A friend who is a dog trainer, and who has known Tupak since he was a puppy, agreed: it could be very good for him, too.
So on January 6, 2026, we brought her home. Fourteen weeks old. Two point seven pounds. She could fit inside a coffee mug. The ego, however, arrived fully grown.
"I don't remember the drive. I remember arriving, auditing the yard, meeting the elderly giant on the floor, and deciding — immediately — that all of this was mine."
Arrival Day · January 6, 2026 (2.7 lbs)
The numbers.
Humorous, not scientific. Although she insists they are both.
Maximum. Always.
They live on the other side of the screen. They know what they did.
I don't steal socks. I relocate them.
I always win. The rope disagrees. It is wrong.
New friends are simply fans I haven't met.
If I can reach it, it is mine.
Mostly on whether there is chicken.
I could tell you, but then I'd have to grumble.
Affection is available on my schedule. Please check back.
The household rules.
Authored by her. Enforced by her. Ignored by everyone else, at their peril.
If I can reach it, it is mine.
If you are wearing socks, I may need them.
If there is a squirrel, I must investigate.
If my brother has something, I probably want it.
If you are sitting down, I may require your attention.
Affection happens on my schedule.
The laundry hamper is not a container. It is a suggestion.
“No” is a word I have chosen not to learn.
"Six pounds is a measurement. It is not a limitation."
Read the case files