The cold morning air pierces every inch of my skin. The uninformed decision to venture out coatless was an awful mistake. The only motivation I find is coming from the five-pound ball of fur prancing about in front of me. Bitterly cold, and just plain bitter at the moment, I brave the conditions for my little buddy. After all, he is going to be stuck all day in an empty apartment by his lonesome. Eventually he will stop to sniff around, creeping ever so close to his favorite tree. I don’t say a word. Don’t make a motion. Don’t do anything that might disturb his morning routine. Oh, maybe … wait for it … YES! Finally, it happens. I look down and see the fruits of his labor—three peanut-sized turds. All that pain, all that agony for that? He leaps in my direction looking for approval, hoping that he has, in fact, been a good boy.

My puppy, Reilly, looks like a dog and barks somewhat like a dog, yet at best he is only a miniscule version of a canine. Reilly is a miniature Yorkshire terrier, a black and brown ball of fluff with an abundance of energy. I am a 6-foot, 210-pound former college baseball player trying to navigate my way through graduate school. Somewhere soon you will find our mugs next to the definition of an odd couple.

My mom spent years pleading with my dad for a Yorkie until he eventually broke down and bought her one. The only problem was Bling (my dad’s ridiculous name choice), became attached to my dad. So when my mom retired, my dad bought her another Yorkie. The only setback was Lil’ Sis, as the kennel had named her, seemed too distraught to leave her Lil’ Brother behind. My mom decided I needed a puppy, and my apartment would make the perfect home for this cute little guy.

I wasn’t so sure. I was skeptical at first when my parents offered me this furry little fellow. I always wanted a puppy to call my own, but the vision I had was significantly larger than Reilly. I saw myself with a much more manly breed—possibly a Boxer or a chocolate Lab. Despite my apprehension, my affinity for man’s best friend got the best of me. As soon as I saw him my skepticism vanished, and I accepted my parent’s undersized gift.

Born on April 17, 2008, he was edging close to 5 months old when my parents brought him to me in September. At that point, he was tipping the scales at a massive 3.5 pounds—the Polo shirt my mom dressed him in accounted for the half pound. My mom is one of those silly people who believes tiny animals should wear clothes, but not me—well, at least that’s what I thought.

I had promised my mother that my dog would never wear clothes. My girlfriend promised my mother that our dog would never wear clothes. My dog now wears clothes.

I lost the battle—not with my mom, but with Reilly. I took off his shirt when my mom left, and he was infuriated. He jumped off my lap and moped around my apartment. I tried everything to get him to play, but he wouldn’t. Finally, I gave in and put his shirt back on. You would have thought he won the puppy lotto as he snuggled up next to my cheek and covered it with little puppy kisses. It’s embarrassing to say but he possibly has more clothes than my 22-year-old girlfriend, Cara. He has a shirt or outfit for every occasion. He even has a lime green pair of jammies—yes, he has freakin’ lime-green full-body pajamas that are adorned with little monkeys.

This is where I used to draw the line. I refused to walk him when he is wearing his favorite PJs. I used to pawn him off on Cara when people giggled and asked about him. “Oh, ummm, yeah he is my girlfriend’s dog,” I would say. Then, I bought him a Braves tag to spruce up his manly image, but Cara told me I could no longer deny him, considering a girl would never put that on her dog. It’s not that I was embarrassed to take ownership, but I’d always think: Is everyone snickering because he is so damn cute or are they just laughing at me? It took me a while, but I finally realized I couldn’t live without Reilly. He truly is my best “small” friend. I no longer deny ownership of my buddy, but he still knows how to make my cheeks nice and rosy red from time-to-time on our adventures.

Last week, I took him on a walk around the block. We nearly made it all the way home without any incidents, but then the apartment security guard whipped around the corner to lock up the leasing office. As he opened his car door, Reilly attacked—as much as a five-pound fur ball can attack—and the wannabe 5-0 proudly stated, “Oh no! We got a killer on the loose.” Really, Reilly? I’m pretty certain I made the man’s night. For a moment, there was someone else in the world even less manly than a rent-a-cop. Despite all the blushing and the rapid loss of masculinity points, I wouldn’t trade Reilly for any other mass of fur in the world.

When I come home from one those of seemingly never-ending bad days, all of my worries disappear the moment I open my back door. Reilly, perched on his favorite chair, is always waiting for me, ready to cover my face with a dash of his puppy love.

Friday was his first birthday, and I made it special for him. I gave him his favorite treats, rolled around on the floor with him, played fetch with his favorite little bunny and made him his favorite food: chicken. After all he deserves it, he is the best gift I’ve ever received—a gift that truly just keeps giving.