My designer dog is an ancient royal snub

When people ask for my dog Kirby’s breed and I answer “Lhatese,” I am invariably met with a blank, squinty-eyed stare.

“Come again?”

“Lhatese,” I say, sounding it out. “A cross between a Lhasa Apso and a Maltese.”

They usually nod politely at the “Maltese” half, while the “Lhatese” part clearly registers as a fake word or a mispronounced Starbucks order. Vets and groomers immediately whip out a pen, looking baffled. “How on earth do you spell that?”

Eventually, as well-meaning strangers lean down to croon over my tiny, four-legged emotional crutch and ask what kind of dog he is, I just sigh and say, “Maltese.” It saves time, prevents a full history lesson, and keeps me from explaining.

At least he isn’t a funny-sounding “Labradoodle” or a “Malshi.”

A dog with two faces

Technically speaking, Kirby is the quintessential “designer dog.” Because he’s a hybrid of two distinct purebred parents, the American Kennel Club turns up its nose at official recognition, though several designer canine registries happily claim the mix. The “designer dog” craze originally took off in the United States in the late 1980s, and Kirby’s specific breed was the result of breeders deciding to intentionally cross an ancient sacred sentinel with a royal lapdog.

In reality, Kirby looks mostly like a Maltese: a doll-like face wrapped in a soft white coat tinged with gold. When we let his hair grow long, he transforms into a wild, scruffy little creature reminiscent of Falkor, the flying luckdragon from The NeverEnding Story.

Then comes grooming day. The moment he steps out of the dog salon with a freshly chopped pixie cut, his entire persona changes. He suddenly looks like a delicate little girl dog. Naturally, during those short-haired weeks, we call him “Sheila.”

Monks, monarchs and doorbells

Despite his glamorous mixed pedigree, Kirby’s roots go back thousands of years. On his mother’s side, he inherits the heritage of the Lhasa Apso, an ancient Tibetan breed that guarded sacred monasteries and palaces high in the Himalayas.

Known as “bearded lion dogs,” these fierce little alarm systems acted as interior sentinels. If an intruder somehow snuck past the massive Tibetan Mastiffs outside, a Lhasa Apso was waiting inside to sound the alarm.

Kirby has fully embraced his ancient Tibetan duties. He remains hyper-vigilant, barking incessantly whenever a suspicious wind blows outside our front door (Yet, oddly enough, he barely nudges when I snore).

His father’s side brings the aristocratic flair of the Maltese, an ancient breed kept by Roman, Egyptian and European royalty — even Queen Elizabeth I had one. In short, Kirby is the closest thing to high nobility I will ever own.

The prince of picky eaters

I brought three-month-old Kirby in 2024 — whom we eventually nicknamed “Jimothy” this year, after the internet-famous, squat-looking raccoon — home after a bout of illness, needing a low-maintenance companion. His original owners promised he was hypoallergenic and low-shedding, which was perfect for my asthma.

What they forgot to mention was his flair for high drama. The moment he entered my house, Kirby turned into a clingy shadow, whimpering mournfully if I dared step into the bathroom for 10 seconds. He isn’t huge on affection either; he loves being nearby, but despises being smothered or kissed. When my niece arrives, he pees with absolute jubilation, yet he remains deeply suspicious of any food handed to him.

He turns his nose up at normal dog fare, agreeing to consume only chicken, egg yolks, and the occasional nibble of pork. Offer him a dog-safe treat, and he inspects it like a health inspector looking for violations.

Eventually, the roles flipped and I became the clingy wreck. The second I wake up in the middle of the night and realize he’s not next to me, I start crying out his name into the pitch black. He emerges from under the bed with a deep, judgmental sigh. He crawls up to indulge me for a strict ten minutes — just long enough to appease my separation anxiety — before trotting back to his floor space.

Sorry, but I cringe at terms like “furbaby” or “furparent” — I prefer maintaining strict species boundaries. He is simply my dog, and I am his dramatically needy human. But as he gazes up at me through his limited blue-and-yellow vision, in all his scruffy, aristocratic, and deeply judgmental glory, I know one thing for sure: he is my absolute best friend.