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A former bodybuilder with a shaved head and sleeves of ink, Bobby Humphreys knows people size him up from a glance. 'We all judge,' he says. 'We all stereotype.' Beneath the intimidating look, though, sits an enormous heart. He's devoted his life — and his Maryland house — to sheltering abused and abandoned Chihuahuas, a breed judged and labeled even harder than Humphreys is. It all began with heartbreak and a tiny dog named Lady.
Humphreys' wife had just walked out, leaving him at rock bottom. 'She left me after 17 years of marriage for one of my buddies on my competitive bodybuilding team,' he says. 'I never saw it coming.' Even earning good money as a high-end hardwood-floor contractor, he kept turning down jobs, spending his days on the couch, alone with crushing thoughts.
'The one person on earth who seemed to care was my friend Connie. She simply wouldn't give up on me,' he says. She kept showing up with a spooky sense for when his depression was worst. 'She saved my life.'
A few months later, in April 2017, Connie asked a favor: she had to move somewhere that didn't allow dogs, and needed somewhere for her Chihuahua, Lady. Reluctant to take in the little dog — infamous for hating everyone, especially men — Humphreys said yes anyway. Within hours of arriving, Lady draped herself across his lap, and they were inseparable. 'As low as I felt about myself, it was Lady who made me feel worthy,' he remembers. 'Here's a dog who supposedly hates everybody, and out of nowhere she found me special.'
Humphreys was hooked. Knowing Lady wouldn't stay forever, he set out to find his own 'lumpy' dog like her. No 'cartoonish, purebred, cute-and-cuddly' puppy for him — he blew past the breeders and went straight to Craigslist. What he kept stumbling onto were unwanted, neglected dogs, the kind likely destined for shelters or used as bait for fighting dogs.
His voice breaks telling one bait-dog story, Lucy, who became Chihuahua #12. The couple who found her, torn up with broken ribs and rips everywhere, weren't allowed to keep her in their apartment. Saving abused animals like Lucy became an obsession, almost an addiction for Humphreys. 'I'm glued to Craigslist,' he says, 'but I'm not hunting for cute pups. I search words like "fear biter," "aggressive," "free to a good home."'
After a lifetime of Labrador Retrievers and Rottweilers, plus endless teasing of his 'tough-guy friends' for carrying their girlfriends' 'pocketbook dogs,' Humphreys was suddenly surrounded by pint-sized Chihuahuas — and he figured it out: 'You can be a big tough guy, and a small dog can turn you soft inside.'
Once word got out that Humphreys rescued Chihuahuas, pleas rolled in from coast to coast. 'I'm flooded with emails and messages. Can you save this dog? Can you save this dog? Can you save this dog?' It stings every time he has to say no. 'I know I can't save them all, but they keep getting handed to me anyway.'
In October 2018 his home officially became Big Guy, Littles World Sanctuary. Today it's home to 99 Chihuahuas plus one easygoing cat, Mowgli. 'He's bigger than every Chihuahua here,' Humphreys says, calling Mowgli lovable, lazy, and chill — handy traits for a cat forever vastly outnumbered by raucous little dogs.
A typical night finds Humphreys and his girlfriend sharing their bed with the 20 tiniest, most fragile animals. Mornings begin with cleaning the night's messes. 'Let's be real,' he says, 'these guys aren't holding it.' Reusable pee pads go straight in the washer. 'Nobody's using paper towels; we don't haul bags of trash out.' Then a machine he compares to a Zamboni polishes the porcelain tile — he gave up his gorgeous hardwood when the sanctuary moved in — and he uses it to spot-clean all day.
'By nine o'clock we're feeding everyone,' he says. Around 30 dogs get their own special meal tailored to their needs, and within an hour they're all snoozing indoors or romping outside. Whatever the weather, the doggie door stays open. His small crew of staff and volunteers watch the dogs constantly. 'There are so many medical issues and behavior problems. You really have to be present,' he says. 'A seizure can hit at any moment.'
Across six-plus years, Humphreys has built deep empathy for the breed that took over his life. 'I know everything that bugs them,' he says. 'I can tell their barks from another room.' And he's heard every knock against the tiny, misunderstood dogs: unhealthy, yappy, biters. 'Well, think about it. To them you're Godzilla. How would you feel if a 50-foot giant towered over you?'
He's become oddly good at figuring out exactly what each dog needs to shine. 'I nudge them past their comfort zone, but I never break their trust,' he says. 'I'm always there to catch them.' He points to Nugget curled in his lap: 'She's got two-and-a-half legs.' With his patience and praise, she learned stairs and swam laps in the pool. 'Now she's as independent as they come.'
He's also nailed the trick for introducing each new rescue to the pack: bring one friendly, persistent Chihuahua along for pickup, then let that vet help the newcomer bond with Humphreys during the ride or flight home — snuggling, sharing food. 'By the time we get home, we're already friends.'
A three-pound, outsized Chihuahua named Thor was the master of that job, but since Thor passed, Humphreys has had to audition others for the mentor role. He nods at the dog on his lap: 'Nugget's a sweetheart with me, but she's a total jerk to new dogs.'
A big shoulder tattoo honors Thor, whom Humphreys still calls his best friend and his alpha. Names and pawprints cover most of one arm. 'I didn't think this through,' he admits. 'I'm going to run out of space one of these days.' Emotion swells as he talks about every dog he's lost: 'Their lives meant something to me, and I never want them forgotten.'
Like many rescues, his sanctuary has felt the financial squeeze lately, between the pandemic and soaring inflation. Humphreys funds it by selling the hemp-based CBD health products for dogs and people that he created. And he dreams big: sanctuaries in every state and a national body to regulate the whole pet industry, from toys to food to vet care. 'Most people in this field mean well,' he says, 'but there are still way too many bad actors in a business nobody polices. Maybe 300 years from now my name outlives me and my life means something.' As people keep telling him, though, each individual Chihuahua he saves is a difference made. 'In my own small way, I'm changing things.'
Despite the bad press — Chihuahuas are the second-most euthanized breed, just behind pit bulls — they overflow with love. 'I've never felt love from an animal the way you get it from a Chihuahua,' Humphreys says. 'Even the biggest, toughest guy loves a puppy, and Chihuahuas are just puppies that never grew up.'
Trouble only appears when a dog doesn't get enough attention or is handled poorly. 'Often a Chihuahua is a one-person dog. They adore you and distrust everyone else, even family. You have to socialize them.' Humphreys' heart melts every time a frightened new arrival, treated only with kindness, finally learns to trust people.
Humphreys has had to learn trust too. 'I was pushed down my whole life,' he says. He grew up being told he'd never amount to anything, then got betrayed by his wife. The Chihuahuas taught him something crucial: 'That I'm not as bad a person as I always thought I was.'
Thanks to the Chihuahuas, he found his life's work, met his partner through the sanctuary's Instagram, and gave his friend Connie a place to live and help care for the dogs. 'I think I'm doing the right thing, and maybe when you do right, you get rewarded,' he says. 'I've changed my entire life. I went from sad to good, and there's a happy ending even for me. I'm complete. I have the dogs, my wonderful girlfriend, my best friend. I have everything now. I couldn't be happier.'
This story first appeared in the award-winning Modern Dog magazine. Subscribe today!
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