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.