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

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.