My Boyfriend Joe...

... is the Ryan Gosling of dogs. Which makes me the Eva Mendes of dogs. Oh yes indeed.

I'll have you know that handsome, sexy, manly Joe adores me. He chivalrously defends me from boors who want to hump me*.
Joe doesn't let anyone play with me while in his presence. He wants me for himself alone. He is an elegant, considerate player. The other day I played hard to get (we are fickle creatures us dogs) and he was literally begging me to play with him, making such a cute, unholy racket, even his charming owner asked him to muster some amour propre and stop howling like a madman. I was unmoved, busily sniffing someone else's posterior. Enchilada was upset with me for being such a tease. Of course, when Joe left, I was bereft. Serves me right. You ignore the Ryan Gosling of dogs at your own peril. 

*I have noticed that the worst offenders of humping are the fluffy dogs. You see a ball of caramel fluff coming your way, you better run, because beneath all that curly softness, there is a schmuck waiting to hump you. The fluffier the dog, the more horny they are. And because they look like a walking cloud of cotton candy, they get away with murder.

This is Not Fun

I scratched my own little cornea. This really, really sucks. You can't see it from this picture, but my left eye looks like Quasimodo. Elizabethan collar, my butt. This is torture. Can't play, can't sniff, can't scratch other important places. Hate the freaking medicine. I don't know what they want from me. Make it stop.
Signed,

Petra.

The Yeti and Me

Just back from the Himalayas where I had a tete a tete with the infamous Yeti. He provided some much needed warmth in the zub-zero weather, now that somebody sheared so much of my hair that going out to pee in the frigid November weather makes me shiver. Brrrr.

Extreme Makeover Canine Edition

Drumroll please:
My first grooming job ever.
Who do you prefer?  Boho Petra...

...or Chic Petra?

 

I like the coif, but moi, je pense que je suis plus boho que chic. 
Line up for autographs, si vous plait.  

Love,

Petra.

Roar

I snarled and growled and barked at this lion in Chinatown until it was brought to my attention that the thing was made of plaster.
How am I supposed to know that this beast is not for real?
Just don't mess with me, okay?

You talkin' to me?

Wow. A pigeon that swims. I never saw that coming.

New York, New York...

...It's a helluva town!
The Bronx is up, but the Battery's down.
The people ride in a hole in the groun'.
New York, New York, it's a helluva town!

My sentiments exactly.
Signed,

Petra. 

There's No Business Like Snow Business

Enchilada could have photoshopped out the leash so I could look more heroic, like Lassie or Rin Tin Tin, but boy, is she useless.

Snow! Snow! Snow! Snowy snow!  What the hell is this white stuff that chills my paws and makes me shake with brrrr? I like it! I like how it crunches underfoot, and I like licking it (it has a slight diesely finish, a bit of a sooty aftertaste). 
I was taken on my first outing ever to Central Park, which looked like the Big Dog in the Sky had decided to maul it. There were fallen tree branches everywhere and everybody was astonished that the trees were still green but there was snow on the ground. The day before, there was a horrible storm that Enchilada insisted on dragging me out to so I could pee and poo in it. No way in hell was I going to freeze my butt out in the howling wind and the pouring sleet, and I made that very clear to her.  See what happened to the trees!

Heroically inspecting the damage on behalf of the Parks Commissioner.

Do I look like a superhero or what? Except for that stupid leash...

What Becomes A Legend Most

"...and here is Petra wearing a fabulous cerise corduroy coat with faux shearling trim, the chicest piece of the season and her first wardrobe item ever. Strike a pose!"*

*Model's note: It was about time. I'm from the tropics and not used to these autumnal chills. This is toasty. Thank you.

Post-Op

I was spayed yesterday. That sucked. I also had some teeth removed because I didn't lose some of my baby teeth so I had two rows of teeth and looked like a piranha. Today, I'm not my usual bubbly self. It's hard to me to jump on the curb and I still like to say hello to dogs, but I can't play. I'm sore.
The doctor said one week to ten days no dog run, which is catastrophic. You mean all that time without playing with Spencer, Joe, Gracie, Buster and cute little Freddie?  As the humans say, WTF? I will be bored out of my wits. Also no bathing, so their dreams of grooming me will have to wait. In the meantime, I look like a lion who escaped from the zoo (not the one in Ohio) and is currently living under the Manhattan Bridge.
Enchilada caught me eating the remains of a cupcake paper cup from the street and when she tried to pry it away from me I snarled at her and growled at her and I bit her, for the first time ever. She was furious and she took me home and sent me to the corner (my little travel case). She thinks that the paper cupcake holder gave me a bit of a fever. I think that what gave me the fever was the stupid operation that I didn't ask for.
Oh, did I tell you that they also implanted a microchip in me? I'm bionic now. In case I get lost. I fail to see how I'm gonna get lost. My owners don't leave me alone for a nanosecond. In any case, the only thing that I'm doing normally right now is smelling every inch of space, every fallen autumn leaf, every speck of dirt and dust that I encounter.
And begging for treats.

I'm the 1%!

And you're fired!

Eat Dirt

If Enchilada thought I was going to be an angelic puppy who was going to do everything she said, she had another thing coming. To paraphrase Mae West, when I'm good, I'm good, but when I'm bad, I'm better.

I'm no angel

It so happens that I thoroughly enjoy finding the next available potted plant and eating delicious dirt from it, and spreading it all over the rug, if possible.
If the pot is low, I may even climb in and dig a hole, because, why not?
In my lair in Greenwich Village, I happen to have two big beautiful potted plants that provide endless hours of happy entertainment for me, especially when no one is paying me any mind. This will remind them to play with me when I demand it. So what if it is all the time? That's what they're there for.
To my chagrin, I have noticed that every time I resort to the plants, Enchilada almost has a heart attack, followed by histrionic threats to put me up for adoption at Pet Smart. Brooms and vacuums come out. I am told "Petra, NO!" in a supposedly authoritarian tone and I am even sent to solitary confinement in my travel bag for a while (about 3 minutes, while the owners decompose with guilt and I patiently bide my time). However, Enchilada devised this ingenious method to prevent my forays into the potted plants:

The Fortress of Solitude

Keep out!

They are running out of chairs to sit on. He he he.

Check Mate!

 Bring it, Bobby Fischer.

Back from Jersey

Happy New Year, everyone!

What is up with New Jersey? Where are the people? Where are the doggies? Where's the garbage? Where are the rats? I loved the fresh air over there, but it was too quiet! Spooky!
I was there on an invitation to celebrate the Newish Jew Year. Oops, I meant the Jewish New Year.
It was awesome except for the fact that Enchilada didn't let anybody share scraps with me, which can only be described as sheer evil. Does she realize that my nose picks up scents a gazillion times more powerfully than hers? That I could smell the delicious chicken, the pot roast, the fish, the pomegranate seeds with rosewater? It was driving me crazy.
I put my best Oliver Twist face and begged so much that they had no choice but to give me a little bit of meat, which I inhaled in three seconds.
They leave the door open over there in Jersey and I took the opportunity to stroll in the grass. The grass is wonderful. I love the grass. But where I live, evil people don't let us dogs play in the grass. It's perverse.
Since I'm a city dog and lost in the suburbs, I actually pooped right in the middle of the road, where cars would come by once an hour. You know why? Because there was barely a sidewalk, that's why. What a strange place. Lots of grass but no sidewalks, lots of space but no dogs. It's like the opposite.
In any case, happy new year to everyone! You who can, eat your apples and honey and don't forget to be kind to all creatures (except roaches and rats, says Enchilada).

With the Big Boys

People are amazed that I'm such a fearless little puppy. Fact is, I love the big guys. The bigger the dog, the happier I am to make their acquaintance. So today Enchilada took me (correction, I dragged her -- see post below) to the big dog run on Leroy St,  and the Hudson River and I felt like a fish in the sea. Loved it!
The big dogs are fascinating company. They're very cool because they can't be bothered. They are blasé about me, or they come, sniff, and even want to play. They are super patient when I start jumping at their faces.

Don't get me wrong, I like small dogs too, but some of them can be a little high maintenance. Some of them have no social graces. In any case, Enchilada almost had tears of pride in her eyes today that everybody at the big dog run was marveling at how fearless and self-confident and playful I was in the company of the big guys. What can I say? I'm pretty awesome.

Love of My Life

Here's Gus, my best friend, my platonic love, the guy who protects me from bigger dogs and howls with joy when he sees me. The guy who refuses to leave the premises as long as I'm still there and who plays gently with me for hours. We love each other very, very much.

Enchilada took me for a long walk today, in the hopes of tiring me out, and I could smell my friend Gus from 4 blocks away. I dragged her to the verboten big dog run, and sure enough, there he was!

Romantic music swells...

Places to Go, People to See

Dear diary: I'm sorry I haven't written in a long time but I've been busy, busy, busy, with my New York lifestyle. What with the dog run, the long walks to the river, the outings for peeing and pooing -- my social calendar is swamped. Enchilada is taking care of me singlehandedly for a month (quite the selfless Jewish mother, I gotta say).
In fact, I'm the one who takes her to the dog run. I walk her.  I own her.
We do as I please.

Take me out, will ya?

Since we got back from our fabulous Mexican beach retreat, there has been drama. Enchilada complains that taking care of me, as sweet, good natured, cute, friendly, as I am, is not easy. True, I arise around 6 am, tail wagging frantically. She plays dead and so I let her sleep another hour or so. I think all that going out to pee and poo is what gets to her. She hates that I have to personally greet every dog in New York. And I don't take no for an answer. However, she has miraculously lost 4 pounds, from all this walking me around, so she should zip it.

With my friend Spencer

Then there was the food issue. In Mexico they gave me food from the breakfast buffet at the hotel because I absolutely refused to eat that despicable dog food they bought along in tupperwares. If you were me, you'd do the same. So Enchilada decided to cook for me when we got back and it was yummy boiled chicken and rice and beef. I loved it! Problem was, it was giving me Moctezuma's revenge. And neither of us felt good about that. Thankfully, she consulted her wise friend Jackie, who recommended this really expensive kibble. All these humans are telling her that she should not let me rule her life. That she's the leader of the pack and all that utter nonsense. As if. In one respect, she must have listened, because she stuck to her guns, tired me and almost starved me to death one day and then put the plate of this new stuff in front of me with the admonition that from now on that was going to be breakfast, lunch and dinner, no ifs, ands or buts. No more a la carte menu for me. Well, I devoured it. (Stage whisper: it's not that bad). Enchilada is ecstatic that she can now scoop up my poo without mortification, I'm happy that I'm pooing normal and that's that.
Now, as for the blessed dog run, you should see Enchilada suffering the other dogs, halfheartedly commenting on how cute they are, allowing them to jump on her lap and cover her with stinky dirt.  I understand that this is as radical a change as Hitler becoming a Hassidic Jew all of a sudden. I am causing her a major identity crisis.

Me? I love the dog run. I prefer bigger and older dogs, but I'll play with anyone who'll be nice to me. I don't like aggressive dogs. Many stupid little alpha males in the bunch, always looking to dominate. I play like a cat. I throw my front paws up in the air and right into a dog's face. Love it. The only two dogs that have ever scared me have been these two insufferably cute male puppies who are super aggressive. When one of them is there I won't even go in, he's such a savage. But look with whom I played today:

We got along like gangbusters

Mystery Solved!

Hallelujah! The mysterious mystery of my origins has been solved!
I'm not a Morkie, or a Shmorkie or a Porkie.
I am -- drum roll please -- a YORKINESE! A mix of Yorkie and Pekinese.
This explains my floppy ears, my long tail, my cute face and apparently, the fact that when I eat, I need to take my food to the other room.
Enchilada is ecstatic that now she has the right answer for all those people so keen on knowing what the heck kind of dog I am.
Here's a description of my traits:

Yorkies, like all terriers, are brave, curious and energetic. Pekingese possess dignity and intelligence and are affectionate and good natured, making them good family pets and companions. 

That's me allright. The dignity part, hmmm... I don't know. I could be a bit more dignified. I chase after every dog known to man and I beg to play, even when they are haughty and snippy and uninterested.  On the other hand, I like to sit and ponder the mysteries of the universe. And I look plenty dignified when I'm doing that.

My Vacation Photo Album

Me in my yacht.

Need I say more?

I swam in there

Found that tennis ball while looking for iguana poo, breakfast of champions.

Esther Williams, Move Over.

She got nothing on me.

If you don't know who I'm talking about, think Michael Phelps.

Irene Who?

Apres my morning constitutional. 

Hello Diary:
I have not written because I am at a secluded beach in the Mayan Riviera, my first beach ever, and who has the time or the inclination to write, when you can adore the feeling of soft sand under your paws, the salty air and the lovely waters of the Caribbean? Not I.
But I gotta tell you, Enchilada almost flipped out when I swam for the very first time, for the very first time. We dogs don't need lessons! We just flap our legs about and swim!
I looove the ocean. It never tires of playing with me.
I looove the beach. I love it so much, I'm pooping sand.
So if Enchilada has a conniption because she doesn't know when the hell we are going back to stinky New York, I'm like, bring it on. (Although I do miss my doggie friends, particularly my BFF Gus. I hope he is okay with all that rain and thunder by that nasty lady).

Where's my piña colada? 

One of the greatest pleasures in life. 

Life's a beach.

What Would Emily Post Do?

Yesterday, I was taken for the very first time in my life to the Washington Square small dog run. Oh my effing God! You see, I am used to play with dogs on my turf, but this was like going to a party where you don't know a soul. As you might understand, it can be a little overwhelming. Happily, my old friend Buddy was there. Problem with Buddy is, even though he is immensely patient with me when I jump all over his face, he really likes Enchilada better (he thinks she's got treats). So the moment he sees her, he ignores me. But he is a really cool, wise old guy. Well, he was the only dog I knew in this shindig.

My man Buddy

I must confess that, uncharacteristically for me, at first I was rather bewildered. What was this place full of tiny ass-sniffing dogs? Where were the big dogs? Why? So in order to assess the situation calmly I did hide under a bench for a couple of seconds. Once I realized that in social situations everyone is insecure, I thought, what the heck, let's give this thing a try. I'm an extremely friendly and sociable person. I have to personally greet every dog, human or foot that walks my way. So I got out from under the bench and started socializing (no opening vodka tonics for me, as Enchilada advises when under stressful social situations). I forgot all about my owners (we'll come back to this in a moment) and started trying to make friends. As I said, there was a lot of aimless bum sniffing but not too much play action. There were two bigger dogs who were the only ones playing. I tried to join them but they completely ignored me. Some people have no social graces.

 Can I play with you guys?

There was this tiny old guy whose owner said he loves humans but hates dogs. I tried to have a conversation, but he was standoffish and snippy. There was this really snotty black poodle whose owner was as insufferable as her. What are you gonna do? 

Winston was too busy chomping on his cigar

Buddy's mom (she's a cool lady) was telling Enchilada (who was worried about me being miserable. As if), that I was taking very good care of myself, since I promptly forgot all about her. I am an independent minded person. I am not clingy. I don't hide behind anyone's legs. A free spirit with good manners, if you will.

Hi! My name is Petra...

What do you think of David Cameron and the hacking scandal?

As for Enchilada, let me tell you. First she was saying they should not take me to the dog run because I might catch something (even though they've poked me enough with the darn vaccines already). Then the minute we got there, she wanted out. She liked the dogs, she said, but hated the people. Entre nous, Enchilada is deathly afraid to be confused with a classic New York dog owner, a breed of human who, according to her, is one step away from a straitjacket and a room at Bellevue. She doesn't want to be perceived as the poor old middle aged lady who talks too much to her dog and applies cheap Cesar Milian dog psychology to every canine reaction. Ha!* Too late! 

I did my best.

Being social can be exhausting in New York City.

* Ha ha ha ha ha ha haha haha haha!