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.

The Adventures of Petra And Irma Part I

Petra:
I have a new sister. Her name is Irma, and she is nuts. Don't be fooled by her aloofness. She is certifiable. I have to beg her to play. She pretends to ignore me. It drives me crazy but I like it.

Irma:
Can someone explain what this hairy burrito is doing? I don't get it. Thank you. Signed, Irma.

Paris, Je T'aime!

Salut! From the land of fabulous fromage que j'adore, je vous salute you. I am in Paris and I love Paris for many reasons, first off being that I can pretty much show up anywhere unencumbered by rules. Everybody welcomes me, little old ladies love me, I rule le metro, where I can travel sans bag. My owners have yet to take me to La Tour D'Argent, but they are always slow to catch up. Meanwhile, I love love love the Parc Buttes Chaumont, that is, MY park, which is close to chez nous and has many splendored hilly lawns where I play cherche la bal and bark at trash bags.

In fact, I have become a bit of a French salope because snotty teenager that I am, I now growl at everything and everyone, including little old ladies and cute chiens. Why do I act insufferable towards the nicest people? Because this is Paris and when in Rome... 

To be fair, most people have been tres charmant. It's just me wanting to belong. Je suis une arriviste. 

Here's a picture of me at Brasserie Lipp in Saint Germain with jambon et melon, mais oui!

No Sick Leave For You!

Exhibit A: plate with cookie. Exhibit B: mountain. Exhibit C: good foot and bad foot.

Where does my owner get off thinking that she can leave her ball playing duties at 6 a.m. unattended?
What am I, chopped liver?
She broke her foot (second time around, same bone: what a klutz) so she comes back from surgery and stays in bed all day. Was I consulted? Did I give permission to stop catering to me? None that I recall.
The first day she was emanating such vibes of pain, I fled to the other room.
I now look in on her, give her kisses, hoping she'll get up and play. No such luck.
She suspects (sometimes correctly) that my kisses are actually ways in which I try to pry open her mouth to smell or even steal the food she should be giving to me. I also tend to try to burrow my tongue and one of my canines deep inside her nostrils. I don't understand her problem with this. Delicious. 
I am bored out of my wits.
For starters, her crutches smell uncannily like rubber balls, which are my number one obsession on Earth, so why are they in her armpits?
My bed (you heard right) has been colonized by a mountain of pillows and tubes for an ice machine and a big black limb I dare not go near to. Except, that is, to steal a cookie, in which case I gingerly surrounded the obstacle, was extremely careful not to disturb the injured foot, mind you, and climbed the mountain, to my own considerable amazement, since I am afraid of heights. I was ready to pounce, when she shooed me away with her good foot. So I bit her in the toe. Gently, as a warning. She was appalled. Called me ingrate, perfidious hound ("Ingrata, pérfida", in Spanish). Bullshit. She loves it when I am rebellious.
Well, I don't love it when she can't play. I'm letting her pet me because she claims it's therapeutic. Anything to get her out of the house with me soon.

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.

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.