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!
