Stewie Meets the Cabbies and the Old Farts

So, there's this online writers' forum where Beard hangs out. I forget what it's called, but I do know he posts under the name of my cousin, Haggis Chihuahua. I met the real Haggis Chihuahua the other day. For now, all you need to know is that anyone who barks at me like Haggis did is a jerk. Unless, you know, it's a friendly bark accompanied by a lot of butt sniffing and other generally accepted social niceties. But more about Haggis in a later post. 

The pictures Beard uses for what they call his avatar look suspiciously like me. They don't look a thing like Haggis. Which is all beside the point.

When he's not on Facebook chatting with all the people he's banninated from this unnamed website, he's on the unnamed site hanging out with all kinds of disreputable people, animals, and batteries for way too many hours. Guy's addicted. I know this because the other day I went up to him and said, "Dude. Food."

And he said, "Yeah. Just a minute."

He lied. It took way more than a minute, whatever a minute is.

The worst thing is, he talks about these reprobates all the time--as if they actually exist in real life, which we know they don't. They couldn't possibly, could they?

Last night I had a dream about some of the creatures he's talked about lately. No, not really a dream. More of a nightmare. Worse, I dreamed I was one of them. Let me tell you about it and who I saw....

I saw An English professor from somewhere in Maine
Who resides in the head of a moose. That's insane.
An ancient new father who has a young daughter,
Who thinks he's a bear. I don't think that he ought'er.

A post office carrier who always delivers,
Her Syn, though, is what always gives me the shivers.
An old Army veteran who simply won't hear
He should open his wallet and buy the next beer.

A sweet TV lady who's wearing the "L."
Who sure does her damnedest darnedest to keep us from Hell Heck.
A cat from South Africa, wearing big glasses
Who wonders how she got involved with such asses.

A sparkling unicorn with a huge smile
And an ancient seagull we ain't seen for awhile.
An old Everready who brings folks their Jello,
A sheep and two feet and an upside down fellow.

An undead old baby who brandishes axes
And a strange pregnant gal who is studying taxes.
A transformer lady who's never a bore,
And an Ol' Fashioned Gal who will give you what for.

A desert Chiquita whose mule wasn't there
And back to the Old Farts there's yet a new bear.
A human named Peter, a Duchess who scowls
And lonley and friendless, a guy with some vowels.

A guy with two fingers and a Tiddle who winks.
A New Jersey beach bum and a bunneh who stinks.
A NASCARish lady and a doll with large eyes
And a man with a van and some duct tape and lies.

There's Mel in the kitchen and Bernie the Yak,
And our drunken fairy's asleep in the sack.
A dragon who's floating along in a boat,
Two fingers, more cats and that's all that she wrote.

I know there are more, but my minds' in a fog
As yours would be too if like me, you're a dog.

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 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.

I are smart

I learned a new trick last night.

It's called opening doors.

See, lately I've taken to spending more and more time convincing Beard Face Man to put me on his lap while he's siting by that machine with the glowing box on top just above the rattly things he hits with his fingers. He'll do it if I lean in real close and push against his leg. I think I make him feel guilty. Whatever. I don't care as long as he picks me up and pets me.

See, we all have our addictions. I don't smoke, don't drink, and I no longer wander around aimlessly in the pen inseminating every female I have an eye on. And thanks a lot for that by the way, rescue people and the damnable veterinarians you hire to do your evil deeds. But I do like affection. Even when I have push for it.

The thing with Beard Face Man is that he doesn't have much of a lap unless he crosses his legs (or so he claims). He also claims that he can only sit there with his legs crossed one way for only about fifteen minutes. So I often find myself with an inadequate amount of Stewie adoration.

People don't realize this, but we dogs pay very, very close attention to them and know their every move. I can be napping in my bed while he turns off the glowing machine, pours himself a glass of water and tries to sneak quietly into bed. But I've picked up on his tricks. Over the course of a month or so, I've learned to predict the times he's sneaking into bed, and quite often have been able to sneak into the room before he is even aware of it. Then, once he's in bed, but before he falls asleep, I show up next to his side, staring into his face. Naturally, when I do that he feels guilty, as well he should. He picks me up and I get another half hour or so of quality petting time before he finally picks me up and carries me back into the room where I have to sleep with Angel.

But last night I learned something. If the door isn't closed all the way, you can push on it and it will open up again. Then you can walk back into the room, stand next to where Beard Face Man's bearded face is hanging off the pillow, drooling, stare into his eyes and he will eventually see you and pick you up and give you even more quality time.

I got an extra half hour last night, but BFM seems to be afraid about rolling over on me and crushing me. That, plus he whined about losing too much sleep. So he picked me up and took me out and set me in bed with Angel again. Of course I immediately tried to follow him back into his room, but he closed the door and it made a funny metallic clicking sound. I bumped up against it several times but I couldn't get it to open again. But understand this. I'm a patient Chihuey. And not too stupid, if I do say so myself. I'll figure this one out yet. And when I do, he'll get no sleep. No sleep at all.

Bwahahaha.