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.

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.

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.

There's No Business Like Snow Business

Enchilada could have photoshopped out the leash so I could look more heroic, like Lassie or Rin Tin Tin, but boy, is she useless.

Snow! Snow! Snow! Snowy snow!  What the hell is this white stuff that chills my paws and makes me shake with brrrr? I like it! I like how it crunches underfoot, and I like licking it (it has a slight diesely finish, a bit of a sooty aftertaste). 
I was taken on my first outing ever to Central Park, which looked like the Big Dog in the Sky had decided to maul it. There were fallen tree branches everywhere and everybody was astonished that the trees were still green but there was snow on the ground. The day before, there was a horrible storm that Enchilada insisted on dragging me out to so I could pee and poo in it. No way in hell was I going to freeze my butt out in the howling wind and the pouring sleet, and I made that very clear to her.  See what happened to the trees!

Heroically inspecting the damage on behalf of the Parks Commissioner.

Do I look like a superhero or what? Except for that stupid leash...

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.

Eat Dirt

If Enchilada thought I was going to be an angelic puppy who was going to do everything she said, she had another thing coming. To paraphrase Mae West, when I'm good, I'm good, but when I'm bad, I'm better.

I'm no angel

It so happens that I thoroughly enjoy finding the next available potted plant and eating delicious dirt from it, and spreading it all over the rug, if possible.
If the pot is low, I may even climb in and dig a hole, because, why not?
In my lair in Greenwich Village, I happen to have two big beautiful potted plants that provide endless hours of happy entertainment for me, especially when no one is paying me any mind. This will remind them to play with me when I demand it. So what if it is all the time? That's what they're there for.
To my chagrin, I have noticed that every time I resort to the plants, Enchilada almost has a heart attack, followed by histrionic threats to put me up for adoption at Pet Smart. Brooms and vacuums come out. I am told "Petra, NO!" in a supposedly authoritarian tone and I am even sent to solitary confinement in my travel bag for a while (about 3 minutes, while the owners decompose with guilt and I patiently bide my time). However, Enchilada devised this ingenious method to prevent my forays into the potted plants:

The Fortress of Solitude

Keep out!

They are running out of chairs to sit on. He he he.

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

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?

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!

Hunger Strike

Crappy/Less Crappy

 Being as I am used to getting filet mignon and pate de campagne, I refused to continue eating that crackly crap for puppies they were giving me. I pulled a Mahatma Gandhi, which forced my minders to improve my eating conditions.
Enchilada was appalled at the fact that there are three or even four aisles dedicated exclusively to dog food, even worse, she claims, than the cereal aisle for humans. She thinks pet products are like wedding expenditures: with the excuse of loving sentiment, it's sheer armed robbery.
So they got me a new food that has chewy stuff in it that I actually like. It does not beat Boulud, but it's good for noshing.

Life's a Beach

En el mar, la vida es más sabrosa...

The sea! The sand! The sun! The great unwashed! Yesterday we all went for the first time to Far Rockaway, Brooklyn, for a day of fun in the sun. There were these huge white birds that make noises and eat garbage. Oh, how I wanted to chase after them, but this boardwalk thing was confusing and a little scary. I'm not used to walking on slats and there was a little girl who got a huge splinter in her foot (never heard anyone scream like that, ever), so my owners didn't want the same happening to me. It was decided that I promenade on people's arms (get in line).
The sea: is nice! It smells salty and I looove the breeze. I literally air surf. Give myself a blow dry with that nice, fresh wind.
If they had let me on to the sand, imagine all the towel pulling and toe biting I could have accomplished. Alas, one of them is a helicopter mother who monitors my chewing and sniffing as closely as Portnoy's mother did his bowel movements (she also monitors my bowel movements. Sometimes it seems my bowel movements are the sole reason for her existence). The other one thinks I am her personal chewable toy. She was the one that force fed me dessicated Puppy Chow on the boardwalk while they were getting these tasty Venezuelan Hot Dogs (I take issue with the name. Why not Hot Pigs, Hot Cows? What's up with the political incorrectness?). Anywho. I had fun.

Dog Eat Dog. Not.

Actually, they did not serve me a nice hot dog yesterday, not even a scrap of chorizo, at my very first barbecue and social outing of the Summer, where I must say I had pretty much everybody in thrall. For my charming entertaining efforts I was given puny treats, because one of my minders neglected to bring my dinner (sheesh!) and finally I got some fabulous grilled chicken made by a hero who stood behind the smoke and burning coals the entire evening.
Today, even though Enchilada is bent on making me poo, I am not just going to do it any time SHE wants. Since they put me on that malignant leash, I find pooing rather intimidating. Whereas au naturel suited me much better. Oh, well. Let the chips fall where they may.
As I was saying, the BBQ was oodles of fun, especially getting to meet the fabulous Hunter, a one year old mighty human who became my best pal. Enchilada kept comparing us to his poor mother. It is true we are both fearless and adorable. People were watching us play and someone was screaming for someone to shoot us for our 15 minutes of viral fame on You Tube, but everybody was too hypnotized to do anything about it. One thing I will say about Enchilada, she is not a stage mother. She actually barely suffers (rather gamely, I must admit) all the oohing and aahing I elllicit from every single bystander.  I suspect that all she wants is some of all that attention for herself. I pity her. She is used to be the center of attention, but not any more. I can't imagine what that feels like.
I have to ask my dear uncle Alex, the most gracious host, on the most fabulous rooftop in Brooklyn (I like Brooklyn!) on the most amazing Summer day so far, to send me the pictures of me with my adoring fans so you guys can see them.

Exhibit A

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the offending cat collar:

If this is not an affront to canine dignity and freedom, I don't know what is.

No Justice, No Peace!