On Puking

I threw up today.

Let me back up on that a bit. Actually, I didn't throw up today. I threw up about six weeks ago, but my idiot transcriptionist never seems to be able to find the time to post my thoughts on my blog. Good help is hard to find, you know?

We dogs are creatures of habit. We like it that way. And we hate it when anything interferes. Today (six weeks ago) things went south because someone failed to follow the routine. Let me explain.

This is how a typical day in Chihueyville is supposed to go down:

Every day I wake up when Nice Lady gets out of bed. I trot on into the living room, where Angel and I wait for her to give us our morning treats. Angel gets all excited and barks at her sometimes, but I know I can count on her. I wait patiently, and as soon as she's able, she comes over, sits on the couch, opens the bag of Pup-peroni, and gives us our share.

When she's done, she goes and wakes up Beard Face Man, who'd stay in bed until Armageddon if he had his druthers. But I guess he fears her or something so he does get out of bed. Angel and I wait for him because we know it's time for Pup-peroni # II. As soon as he's done, Angel runs into the bedroom and lies down in the bed there, and I get up on Beard's lap while he plays on the glowy box with the rattling keys thingy on the desk and drinks what he calls “coffee.” Then he puts me down, goes into the stinky room, takes off his fur, and pours water over himself. Then he comes back out, puts his fur on again and gets ready to leave for some place he calls “work.” Angel races back into the living room. Then it's Treat Time III. Beard leaves for work, whatever that is, and we go back to sleep. It's a tough life, but somebody's got to do it.

Anyhow, this morning (six weeks ago) Beard was slow. Way too slow. I decided to speed him up by barking at him. Now, understand that he's not used to my barking. And, since I don't really bark all that much, neither am I. I wound up with a scratchy throat. I still tried to eat my treat, but it came back up on me. I horfed, and that sucker flew out of my mouth along with a bunch of mucousy looking gunk. Naturally, that made both me and Angel hungry all over again and we raced to see who'd be the first to gobble that prize down, but Beard got their first with a paper towel and wiped it up.

Bastige.

In fairness, he did give me another treat, but it didn't go down as well as that pile of vomit would have.

People. They're so freaking clueless. You know?

Stewie's Come Out of the Closet

by Miss Angel Chihuahua

It's true. Stewie's finally come out of the closet. Not that there's anything wrong with that. In fact, I think it's about time.

See, any time the weather even thinks about starting to rain or thunder, especially thunder, Stewie gallops into the bedroom and hides himself in the closet Beard and Nice Lady conveniently leave open for him. They've even left a pile of old clothes on the floor where he can lie down and be more comfortable while waiting for Teh Horror to go away--that is he can lie there if he's not trying to burrow his way through the drywall, which I'm pretty sure he tries to do some times.

That tough guy persona he puts on?  Pfft. It's all an act. While I'm lying comfortably in my bed, enjoying the beauty of the lightening flashes, he's shaking and shivering in fear that the rain and thunder that is outside the house will somehow get to him inside the house. He's not very bright.

It's just like what I overheard that old human politician say on the glowy box the other day, "You have nothing to fear but...but...um...rattling paper bags, strangers, sudden movements, baths, people in white coats carrying needles, places I've never been before, change, loud people voices, being alone, not being alone....

GAH!

Excuse me. I'm going to go hide in Stewie's closet for a bit.

I like to hide in small spaces

We all know I'm a stud, right? That's a given. But the fact remains that I'm not...well...huge. I'm actually kind of tiny. When you realize Angel's almost three times my size you get an idea of how little I really am. So, although I'm studly and fierce and all, you huge creatures scare the kibble droppings out of me. Not so much because I fear you, per se. What I fear is getting accidentally stepped on or kicked by you. Because, let's face it, you giants are clumsy.

When I'm not in my bed, on Beard's lap, angling for a treat, or hanging with Nice, you're apt to find me (or not find me as the case may be) hiding. Small places with up top cover provide me all the protection I need. If I can keep out of view, all the better. Don't judge me. It's an instinctual thing.

They keep my food bowl in the kitchen by the refrigerator. When I have my dinner, I race into the kitchen, grab a kibble or three, then dash back, and park myself underneath the dining room table where I devour my kill.  The protective cover of table and chairs gives me all the comfort I need, and the confidence to eat in peace.

Because of my incredibly busy and stressful life, I might, on rare occasions, nap pretty much throughout the morning, and well into the afternoon. Should I be napping and should I hear a loud noise, this is what results.

Sometimes there's rain. Sometimes there's thunder. One's as bad as the other, as far as I'm concerned. When that happens, you might well find me here.

Or you might not find me at all. Ask Angel to tell you the story about how I disappeared just two weeks or so after we came to live with Beard and Nice. They were convinced I'd been carried off by a Chihuey thief or a Golden Eagle. Truth is, I'd simply found a hidey-hole and fallen asleep. It was good to see them so frantic, though. They had the reward posters made up and everything.

I used to sleep with Angel in the doggy bed in the living room at  beddy-bye time, but now I like to sleep in the bedroom. There's a doggy bed there too, and that's where I usually wind up crashing. I don't start there, though. I start here, between the cedar chest and walnut chest of drawers.

There's about a four or five inch gap and I'm certain nothing but me can get in there, which means nothing can get to me. Once Beard is out cold, which at his age takes no time at all, I quietly trot across to to the other side of the bed and plop myself into the doggy bed.

It ain't easy being small, but you learn to cope. And as long as you pretty much get your way on everything life has to offer, life's good.

TTYL.

Stewie

Picture Day

Last Saturday, Beard Face Man walked up to us while we were resting in our bed and said, "Kids, today is Picture Day."

Now, I didn't know exactly what that meant, but it sounded awfully important. So I scratched myself, lay back down, and promptly fell asleep. Angel dealt with it differently.  She spent half the morning grooming, preening, applying makeup, and generally being her bad fussy self. She really thought she was hot stuff, but I sniffed her butt and it still smelled as bad as ever.

BFM has this little metal and glass thingy he sometimes barks into as he holds it up to his ear.Occasionally he hits the front of it with his opposable thumbs too. This time he stuck it in our faces and blinded us with a bright light over and over and over again.  For this I shall dump outside his door tonight.

This is what resulted:

Angel hogging the bed

Angel being prissy

Angel moving her head an eighth of an inch to the left

A sexy toss of the head

I'm thinking

Way to frame the pic, idiot

Is it time for bed yet?

Okay, Buddy. You owe me lots of lap time for this

One dog saved. How many others lost?

Hi, folks. Haggis Chihuahua here, guest blogging for my friend Stewie.

Ted Theewin, a friend of Beard Face Man, let him know about something that just happened out in Walnut Creek, east of Oakland, California. A California Highway Patrol Officer was driving down the Interstate when he saw a tiny Chihuahua on the roadway median, during rush hour, no less. The CHP officer stopped his car and managed to lure the dog close enough so that he was able to pick him up and save him from an otherwise inevitable smooshing.

According to the news article, a CHP officer said "he didn’t know how the dog ended up on the freeway ... (but) it’s likely that someone left the animal there."

Here's a picture of the rescue.

And here's a link to the video of the Chihuahua resting not so peacefully at the rescue shelter.

Kudos to that cop who put himself at risk to save a small animal. And if it's true that someone just put that dog out of the car on a busy expressway--I sincerely hope all their friends and relatives see this story plastered all over the news. I hope they recognize the dog. I hope they learn what their friend/relative is really like and I hope they then treat their friend/relative with the same level of kindness as he or she treated that dog.

I'm not much of a believer in karma, but if it could happen just this one time, I'd be most appreciative.

Haggis

A Visit to the Vet

That.Was.No.Damn.Spa.

That was just...that was...that--

How could they do me like that?

*sobs*

You wouldn't believe what...I mean, here I was up on a table, and she...she took this...this--

GAH!

Look at this picture Angel took. Yeah, I know it's shakey. Get over it. She was scared out of her mind. Plus she doesn't have an opposable thumb. She did the best she could.

 

So right after Angel snapped the pic, this so-called vet reached into her pocket and...

*weeps*

...a needle. A giant +&##* needle!

 *#!!ing %@*##!!!

Took my blood. Took my freaking blood like some vampire chick! And that wasn't the worst of it. She...she...she...then she got out this, this long glass tube--a thermosomething, she called it. And then she...she shoved it...GAH, I can't even say it!

You're not supposed to shove stuff up there!

And while I was up on the table, poor Angel was waiting for her turn. Look at her. 

This is not a happy Chihuey. Poor baby was terrified. Look at how big her eyes are.

I'm sorry. I can't go on. This...this was just too much for me. I don't believe I'll ever recover. How could they do that to me? I am so traumatized. I'll never be able to--

Wait. Was that the rustle of the treat bag?

What? What do you mean the vet said I was fat? I weigh less than ten pounds, you idiot. Gimme my damn treats!

*sob*

This has not been a good day.

___________________________

* Thanks to the lovely and talented NinaK for the inspiring Puppy Proctology Pic that heads up this post. Nina, you never disappoint. 

A Day at the Spa

by Stewie the Chihuey and Angel Chihuahua

Hi, humans. Stewie here.

Me and Angel went to the spa the other day. In case you don't know, the spa is a big building where they have interesting smelling things, food, other dogs, treats, toys, and people who trim your claws. You can recognize the building by the big sign over the door. It says “P-E-T-C-O.” It seems like a lot of letters for a word as simple as “spa,” but you humans don't use a logical language like Chihuahuan.

We had a great time. I walked around a bit, met some other dogs, a bunch of people stopped to pet me, one of 'em took a picture of me, and then I had my claws trimmed. Angel got a trimming and a bath. Then we went home. The end.

Angel here:

You left out a part, Stew.

Stew: Which part?

Angel: The part where you took a dump in the middle of the store.

Stew: Shhh. Ixnay on the umpday, bitch.

Angel: Bitch? Did you call me a “bitch?” you eunuch?

Stew: Take that back.

Angel: Won't.

Stew: I'll tell everyone you eat your own poop.

Angel: Do not. Mostly.

Anyhow, don't go telling everyone we had a great time. It was quite traumatic for me. You know that woman who trimmed our claws? She poured water over me. And...and she used some kind of loud cylinder thingy to blow hot air on me. And then she cut off some of my fur. SHE CUT OFF MY FUR!

I had a terrible time there.

Stew: You were pretty frisky when we got home, prancing around like you owned the world. And you didn't stink nearly as much as you did before.

Angel: Thank you. I guess it felt good after it was over with. And to tell the truth, I didn't think it was possible for me to look more beautiful than I did, but after the bath and trim, I was simply stunning. Maybe it wasn't so bad after all.

Stew: Well, that's good, because I heard Nice Lady tell Beard Face Man that she got us another spa appointment for next week. It's a different spa, though. She spelled this one “V-E-T-E-R-I-N-A-R-I-A-N.” I'm sure we'll have all kinds of fun.

Um, hi.

My name's Stewie. I'm a Chihuey. I'm four and a half years old. That's...um...let's see, that's 13, carry the 7...um...fairly young in people years. I weigh in at a svelte four and a half pounds.

I live with Angel Chihuahua, Beard Face Man, and Nice Lady. Angel is bigger than me and about a year older. Beard and Nice are huge and ancient.

My favorite things: eating, sleeping, pooping, laps, eating, treats, laps, sleeping and food. Hard as it is to believe, I occasionally I find myself with some free time, so I figured I'd start this blog to share my exciting life with others.

I've got lots more to tell you, but it's nap time. I'll be back later.

Oh, and welcome to my blog.