Portrait of A Lady

Move over, Madame X. This is where elegance and poise are at.

I look like a daguerrotype.
Yours,
Petra.

p.s.: for those of you who don't remember Madame X:

This Is How You Play

My new friend Little Bear is my early morning jousting partner. As you can see, I let her think she's winning. After all, she is only a baby. Don't be fooled. I am in complete control of the situation at all times. Even when it doesn't look like it. Even when I have to hide under the bench because she scares the bejesus out of me with her youthful energy. I really like Little Bear. She knows how to play. She's a playa!
(Yes, we do feature films too. Uggy is not the only star in town, you know.)

Petra & The Gang

Me and my homies, we love grass. And by grass I don't mean that foul smelling stuff some of you humans smoke to get all loopy. By grass I mean fresh, green, fragrant, dewy grass we're not supposed to be on because of some ridiculous rule about dogs not being on grass. Dogs not being on grass is like dogs not liking bones. Impossible.
Anywho, here's the neighborhood gang. Sally (beagle-bulldog mix and my favorite female friend in the whole wide world), Daisy, who will not give me the time of day, and Sola, who is a lot of fun when she shows up. Not in the picture: Scruffy, who until yesterday that he got a haircut, truly lived up to his name.

The Proof Is In The Pedaling

I said I go to work each day on a bike, didn't I? And you didn't believe me, did you?
I love the bike so much that the only instance in which I will come when they call me (without owners having to resort to cheap tricks like throwing sticks or showing baseballs, or enticing me with treats) is when I see the bike ready to take me places. So here's proof:

Furthermore:

Tour de France, here I come.

The Media Is Hounding Me

I've been absent for too long, my darling readership. But fear no more. Your Petra is back on the blog and here to stay. Allow me to modestly point out that I am currently appearing in no less a stellar magazine than Time Out New York, in a feature about us dog entrepreneurs.  I go to Dumbo every day on a bike (at first I thought it was one of those insane follies only humans are prone to, but then, lo and behold, I liked it. The wind in my hair, etc, etc. Beats the subway).
I work hard at greeting everyone that comes into the office. I am the general manager of play. Also in charge of naps. And bathroom breaks.

Petra Luxembourg

I, like my neighbors, am opposed to NYU ruining my life with their horrible construction plans, even more than they already do. Right now, they don't let me on the grass park across my house, and when they start building, there won't even be a blade to stare at. Screw them!
Power to the people (and their doggies)!

Call PETA

One of my minders was sick at home and decided to give me a haircut, because she apparently had nothing better to do with her time, except blow her nose and use me as a guinea pig.
Gone is my leonine mane. Now Enchilada says I look like a child of the Depression.  Like Jackie Coogan in The Kid.

It is extremely difficult to screw up my ineffable beauty, but they succeeded.
The reason I look like a bad quilt is because I will not tolerate any kind of intrusion into my body that is not food. I don't love petting, let alone bathing, brushing and much less coming at me with a pair of scissors. I will move like a twister.
While one was snipping away at me, Enchilada was holding a treat between her fingers so I would hold still. You can see the results.
Forget PETA, call me a lawyer. I'm suing these two.

My BFF Homer

Wow! I didn't realize I was having such a fabulous life, I completely forgot to write in my diary! How did you survive without me?
I have so much tell you! I am now 10 months, with no signs of energy abating.
Au contraire, I'm feistier, and much more prone to mischief, now that I can jump on all cushy surfaces (but not on park benches, too hard on my butt).
I have a super duper best friend called Homer. He looks like a Cocker to me, but he is a fancy breed, Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, something or other. He's cool because he loves riffraff like me. Apparently, he will not play with any other dogs. Isn't that sweet? Alas, my love for him is platonic. I have a major crush on an aloof and handsome brown Dachshund named Dexter, who barely gives me the time of day.  Isn't that how it always is? Unrequited love all around. Sigh...
Anyway, Homer and I, we hang out. We chill together. We play like maniacs. He's quite bigger than me and makes these weird noises when he plays, people think he's killing me. Except when he obsesses over a stick or a toy, in which case there is no way to get his attention. This makes me think that he was named after Homer Simpson, and not the guy who wrote the Iliad. His snotty sister Shea, whom I'm happy to pester with affection, sometimes prevents Homer from playing with me, like I ain't classy enough for her. But he always comes back.
He's rather possessive too, and he won't let me play with other dogs (and you know me, social butterfly) or with balls, which he intercepts every time I'm after one.  According to Enchilada, this serves me right because I refuse to understand how to play ball. Other dogs bring the ball back to their owners so they can play catch. Not I. She is supposed to throw the ball to me and then come and get it. She needs to run after the ball, not I. I hide the ball. What's not to like about this game?
And speaking of possessiveness. As the humans say, WTF? What's with all the territoriality and the jealousy? I am independent. I am neither jealous nor possessive. A free spirit, I could care less if Enchilada showers another dog with kisses (she won't). They call me, I don't go. Why should I? They should come to me.
I rule their world.

Strike a Pose

Moi, I'm also a model. And today I booked a fashion photo shoot at the Chinese New Year parade in Chinatown. Normal people don't know how hard it is to be a model. I was freezing. And the paper firecrackers and all those drums and gongs and dragons were freaking me out. But I am a pro. And behaved like a pro (with the aid of some treats).

Whoever is the flavor of the month anorexic model, do move over. There is only one Petra.

Look out for the full doggie fashion spread on fabulously avantgarde Dis Magazine (I wouldn't do anything as pedestrian as Vogue) coming soon.

I Love The Nightlife...

You are not the only ones who get to go out on the town, humans.
Last night I went to a bar in Williamsburg to listen to some live music from the 1930's, exquisitely sung by my friend and chanteuse extraordinaire, Ganda.
I ate many peanuts, danced with a debonair man named Doug, and I would have had a shot of whiskey if someone had the good manners to offer.
Alas, there are no pictures because the one paparazza who tried to sneak snapshots of me complained I was too wiggly.
Not content with so much excitement in one night, the minute I got home, I got my second wind.
Tonight, after coming back from my 9-month birthday celebration and Three Kings party in Queens, I rendered useless an entire pack of toilet paper, and left the living room rug looking like a feral werewolf engaged on a deathmatch with Cottonelle. I was given a risible time out in my trailer and an even more ridiculous dressing down. (It won't work unless they stop laughing while they pretend to discipline me).
Of this, there is evidence:

Here's moi, feigning innocence:

The above mess I managed right after the time out, as soon as I was out of jail. Serves them right.

Cause I love the nightlife, I like to boogie, on the disco aha oh yeah!