Befriending Mister Burns: Introducing My Aggressive Chihuahua

What it really means to live with, love, and help an “aggressive” dog

Meet Mister Cujo Burns

I was warned before I met him.
He wouldn’t “show well,” they said. He would be defensive, unpredictable, even dangerous. A dog too small to be taken seriously, even though he deserves nothing less, and too intense to be easily understood.

But when I sat down, Mister Burns didn’t bare his teeth or retreat into a corner. He climbed into my lap.

He let me rub his back, his sides, even his tiny head. He studied me closely, but he stayed. For a few minutes, he was just a little dog trying to feel safe.

I knew better than to mistake that moment for a guarantee. Trust doesn’t arrive whole; it flickers. And I knew I’d see the other side of him soon enough: the snarling, lunging, Cujo-like fury that earned him his name. But that first meeting felt like a miracle.

It was a glimpse of what might be possible if I learned how to listen to him.

Small Dog, Big Emotions

Burns weighs in at just under seven pounds, but he carries himself like a cornered coyote. He bristles at strangers, despises confinement, startles without sound, and guards both his body and his space with ferocity. At the vet, he makes demonic noises, trembles, and stiffens. Other times, he freezes, lips lifting, caught in a terrible paradox: he frequently seeks attention only to bite the hand that gives it. He can be affectionate, leaning in for contact, then seconds later erupt in rage if the wrong spot is touched or if the moment overwhelms him.

And the moment always overwhelms him.

Living with Burns is like walking an emotional tightrope. He wants connection, but fear governs him. Familiarity doesn’t dissolve his mistrust; sometimes it sharpens it. He is always scanning, always calculating whether the world is safe… or whether it needs to be driven back with his teeth.

The Weight of a Word

People call dogs like Burns aggressive. It’s a label that tends to close the book before the story has even begun. Aggressive. Period. End of conversation.

But aggression isn’t a personality; it’s a pattern of communicative behaviours.

Aggression is a cluster of signals — growls, snaps, bites — that say: please stop, please leave me alone, please give me space. Aggression is communication, and it’s often the only language dogs like Burns feel they have left when subtler signals have been ignored or punished.

To call a dog “aggressive” is technically true, but dangerously incomplete. It can erase the fear that drives those teeth. It can flatten the complexity of a dog into a single, damning trait. And worst of all, it can strip away curiosity — the very thing required to help.

So I use the word cautiously. Honestly, because I won’t sugarcoat what Burns is capable of. But carefully, because “aggressive” is only one layer of who he is.

The Work Ahead

This series, Befriending Mister Burns, is my attempt to show what it really means to live with, learn from, and love a dog like him. I’ll share the messy middle: the vet visits and training plans, the trial-and-error of building routines, the heartbreak of setbacks, and the joy of small wins that mean the world.

I don’t expect to transform Burns into a “normal” dog…because he isn’t.
Aggression can’t be “cured.” Think about it: it isn’t a disease, it’s a cluster of normal communicative dog behaviours. Growling, barking, biting: these are tools every dog is born with. What makes Burns stand out is how frequently and intensely he uses them.

But while aggression can’t be erased, it can be managed. Managed through training that gives him better options. Managed through prevention, by arranging his world so he doesn’t have to practice the behaviours that hurt him or others. Managed through safety measures — like muzzles, medication, and careful handling — that protect both him and the people around him.

Management isn’t a lesser goal. It’s a compassionate one. It says: I see who you are, and I’m committed to helping you live safely and with dignity.

With Burns, that looks like tiny, deliberate steps: teaching him that touch can be predictable and safe; creating spaces where he can retreat without punishment; helping him feel more at ease in the overwhelming world of vet visits and strangers. Some days it means celebrating that he took a treat gently. Other days it means accepting that we’ve hit a wall and need to regroup.

This is the work of befriending Mister Burns. It’s not about erasing who he is — it’s about building a life where fear doesn’t have to run the show.

Because beneath the teeth is still a heart.
And beneath the word aggressive is still a dog worth befriending.