Back from Jersey

Happy New Year, everyone!

What is up with New Jersey? Where are the people? Where are the doggies? Where's the garbage? Where are the rats? I loved the fresh air over there, but it was too quiet! Spooky!
I was there on an invitation to celebrate the Newish Jew Year. Oops, I meant the Jewish New Year.
It was awesome except for the fact that Enchilada didn't let anybody share scraps with me, which can only be described as sheer evil. Does she realize that my nose picks up scents a gazillion times more powerfully than hers? That I could smell the delicious chicken, the pot roast, the fish, the pomegranate seeds with rosewater? It was driving me crazy.
I put my best Oliver Twist face and begged so much that they had no choice but to give me a little bit of meat, which I inhaled in three seconds.
They leave the door open over there in Jersey and I took the opportunity to stroll in the grass. The grass is wonderful. I love the grass. But where I live, evil people don't let us dogs play in the grass. It's perverse.
Since I'm a city dog and lost in the suburbs, I actually pooped right in the middle of the road, where cars would come by once an hour. You know why? Because there was barely a sidewalk, that's why. What a strange place. Lots of grass but no sidewalks, lots of space but no dogs. It's like the opposite.
In any case, happy new year to everyone! You who can, eat your apples and honey and don't forget to be kind to all creatures (except roaches and rats, says Enchilada).

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

Mystery Solved!

Hallelujah! The mysterious mystery of my origins has been solved!
I'm not a Morkie, or a Shmorkie or a Porkie.
I am -- drum roll please -- a YORKINESE! A mix of Yorkie and Pekinese.
This explains my floppy ears, my long tail, my cute face and apparently, the fact that when I eat, I need to take my food to the other room.
Enchilada is ecstatic that now she has the right answer for all those people so keen on knowing what the heck kind of dog I am.
Here's a description of my traits:

Yorkies, like all terriers, are brave, curious and energetic. Pekingese possess dignity and intelligence and are affectionate and good natured, making them good family pets and companions. 

That's me allright. The dignity part, hmmm... I don't know. I could be a bit more dignified. I chase after every dog known to man and I beg to play, even when they are haughty and snippy and uninterested.  On the other hand, I like to sit and ponder the mysteries of the universe. And I look plenty dignified when I'm doing that.

My Vacation Photo Album

Me in my yacht.

Need I say more?

I swam in there

Found that tennis ball while looking for iguana poo, breakfast of champions.

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.