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!

Gone with the Wind

I've always depended on the kindness of strangers.
Oops, wrong Southern belle. 
Frankly, my dears, I don't give a damn.

I Think I'm a Lion

Cue the voice of David Attenbourough:
As she patiently waits for her prey to move, Petra, the fiercest lion in the African savannah, bides her time, slowly and gracefully inching towards her victim.

It's My Party and I Bark If I Want To

I turned 4 months on August 6 (does that make me a Leo?).
There was a soiree in my honor (not really, it was about Enchilada's screenwriting group, but so what?) in which everybody drank micheladas and tequila except me.
Life is not fair.

What does a dame have to do to get a drink around here? 

Still, I had a great time with all those creative, dramatic people. Terry Richardson, eat your heart out:

La vie de freaking boheme in New York Freakin' City. Ya dig?

Operation Camouflage

Secret Agent Petra Training for the Top Secret Operation

Secret Agent Petra, aka "Etele" reported for duty on Saturday night at 20:00 hours for a covert invasion of the Angelika Film Center, where no dogs have trod before (according to my intelligence sources). Under cover of night, and using my sturdy RV as a decoy, we successfully breached the security perimeter around the ticket taker and breezed into the movie Guard (ha!). I sat and promptly fell quiet. Not a peep from me. I'm a professional.
Everything went well until about 2100 hours, when people started getting frisky. How is it possible that a dog has less shpilkes than the humans? They get up, they go pee, they open the door, they close the door, they make weird shadows. This made me growl, but I think people thought it was Enchilada chortling. Or her stomach grumbling.
The operation was seriously compromised when I could not repress a lethal fart bomb (courtesy of the Gerber baby food industrial complex). True, this weapon should have been deployed in a different circumstance, (like against Bashir Assad in Syria), but consider it a dry run. Luckily, the couple sitting next to Enchilada thought it came from her, which gave us spies a fit of the giggles, almost undoing my cover up a la Valerie Plame.
I consider the operation an unqualified success. Enchilada, however, vowed never to take me to the movies again . To be honest, I don't get the movies. Why sit in darkness looking at a flat screen, while you could be outside chasing pigeons?

Am I Cool or What?

 

That was last Sunday. But today, I'm down. :(
We think I'm teething. I don't want to eat. Yesterday I threw up. But maybe that's because the psychos I live with gave me the following menu to eat during the day:
• Ropa Vieja, shredded beef stew from Pedro's in Dumbo (i.e., plutonium bomb of fat and gristle). I loved it, but I didn't chew it.
• Watermelon juice (!) Enchilada was screaming "Do not give that to Petra!", to no avail. It was very nice. A little vodka would have been awesome.
• The fabulous bones from a lamb tagine. I have licked them spotless clean. They are safely hidden in my secret cache.
• 6 cheerios
• 3 blueberries.
Who wouldn't barf?
So, since I'm not eating, they bought me human baby food (Gerber Beef and Beef Gravy) and Enchilada feeds it to me with a spoon (she's so lazy, she lets me lick it clean so she doesn't have to scrub it when she washes it. Some people!).
I like it cause I don't have to chew it.

Hey, BTW. Today I ran into snotty little Miette again. I wanted to play (as I do with absolutely every canine that crosses my way, no matter the size, the breed, the age, or the gender). She snarled at me. Her owner asked Enchilada why they didn't trim my tail. Short answer: because they are not vain nutjobs who think of me as a fashion accessory. "Her hair is so long!" (meaning, she looks like she just emerged from a tornado). Underminers, I think they are called.  My hair is long because I'm a free spirit and a bohemian and I live in Greenwich Village. I don't do salons (yet).
They always make a point of asking what kind of dog I am. It's like the freaking birthers. You wanna see a birth certificate? I'm a Yorkie, a Shmorkie, who cares? I'm cute. End of discussion.

This is how cute I am:
The other day Enchilada took me to the bank, where I plopped my belly on the coolly cool marble floor and there was no moving me. Finally I had to go with her to the ATM and all of a sudden we both hear the hysterical shrieks of a woman who seems to be in the process of being ravished by aliens. It was frightful. Turns out it was a Japanese woman who saw me and had an attack of terminal cuteness. She sounded like a police car siren going nuts, like Hal the computer in that movie with no dogs in it. It was kinda scary.

Yesterday, as I ate my Moroccan lamb tagine bones at The Souk, a New York City policeman walks by and starts telling me that the bone belongs to him. In full police regalia, firearm, handcuffs, maze, mace, and he is making goo goo eyes at me. He was rather sweet. 

I have this effect on people, because people can sense I am really sweet and charming and friendly and playful and social. They call it cute.

And you know what? People are amazed that whenever I play with human babies (toddlers love me) I never bite them. I always give them little kisses. I never play rough. How do I know? Cause they are babies! They're so cuuuute!

Life in the Jet Set

Yesterday was a very glamorous day. My social calendar was full.  I took my second cab ride. It's like a couch that moves.

The paparazzi are just too much!

We went to meet my new friend Hazel, who happens to own a fabulous roof with a fabulous view in Midtown. She is very sweet, and totally unpretentious, but like all big dogs, she didn't cozy up to me as fast as I wanted her to (perhaps it doesn't help that by way of introduction, I jumped all over her face). But soon enough my endless grovelling charms (actually, my yellow toy) won her over, and we became fast friends.

Wherever she went, I went. I ate her food, drank her water; she played with my toy. I had a ball!

Here's Hazel playing hard to get.

Hazel's dad, Anthony, gave me the equivalent of my first Cuban cigar, a delicious thing as good as the finest Macanudo. Apparently, this thing is made from a bull's penis, whatever that means. Only the best for me!

Winston Churchill, move over.

I promptly managed to lose the fabulous thing down one of the floor's wooden slats. However, my resourceful mom rescued it for me. Twice.

Chillin' by the ice.

 I did not pay the slightest attention to my minders for hours. I forgot they were there. Who needs them?

Hazel and moi.