Petra & Irma: Cat In The Box

It's a mystery to me how come my sister Irma plays so hard to get. She's too cool for school, or what?

Irma here: What does this crazy fur ball want from me? I play when I see fit. Hard to get is my middle name. What's so hard to understand? Signed, Irma.

Shh... We're Taking A Nap.

The Last Days Of Disco

OMG! I didn't realize it's been almost a year since I last wrote. I had an acute case of writer's block, no doubt unleashed by my passage into adolescence. I am now two years old, which means that I am free to behave like a petulant teenager. I am still my sweet and bubbly self -- when I want to be. But I have also become a snob who won't play with dogs at the park (I play hard to get) and I do whatever I want.
I much prefer to hang out with humans now, because (as Enchilada thinks) I am under the impression that I am one of them.  I have trained Enchilada to take me out without fail at 7 am each morning (something she claims she never did for anybody, ever) and play ball with me. She has suffered incipient frostbite, and it doesn't matter if the night before we all went to sleep at 4 am or we had a hangover. I rise, reliably like a Swiss watch, at 7 am and she better be ready to throw that ball. I have trained her to give me a treat each time I bring her the ball. All in all, things are going pretty well.
Enchilada is mortified that I steal other dogs' toys. I may have a brand new ball in my mouth but if a dog has an old stinky one, I want it, and I get it and I never give it back. Greed is good.
But talk about mortifying! This personage here is Ttangkong, aka Peanut in Korean. He thinks he is Gloria Gaynor and this is Studio 54.
As you can see, we were not impressed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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!

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?

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.

My First Play Date

Yesterday, my owners had a screening and cocktail party to attend and they left me all alone. I hate it when they leave me. I hate hate hate it. Suddenly, one of them comes back, while I was still looking under the door to see if they had really left, cold-hearted bastards. So fast? Turns out they got the brilliant idea to leave me in the care of my fabulous friend Jackie and her Cocker Spaniel Bugsy, who allows me to jump all over his face like a maniac and utters nary a peep. Cocktail schmocktail. I had FUN! I played and I played and I played some more and we walked and they fed me nice food and not that crap I get at home and I even got these fabulous new collars (still big on me) from Toby's mom. Toby is a Pomeranian who could not care less about me and my playful ways. One collar has rhinestones and the other one has smiley faces. I'll need to see how they look on me. I played so much that today, I didn't wake up until 9!
Sometimes humans use their brains. It happens once in a while.