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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This is Not Fun

I scratched my own little cornea. This really, really sucks. You can't see it from this picture, but my left eye looks like Quasimodo. Elizabethan collar, my butt. This is torture. Can't play, can't sniff, can't scratch other important places. Hate the freaking medicine. I don't know what they want from me. Make it stop.
Signed,

Petra.

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.

Extreme Makeover Canine Edition

Drumroll please:
My first grooming job ever.
Who do you prefer?  Boho Petra...

...or Chic Petra?

 

I like the coif, but moi, je pense que je suis plus boho que chic. 
Line up for autographs, si vous plait.  

Love,

Petra.

Roar

I snarled and growled and barked at this lion in Chinatown until it was brought to my attention that the thing was made of plaster.
How am I supposed to know that this beast is not for real?
Just don't mess with me, okay?

New York, New York...

...It's a helluva town!
The Bronx is up, but the Battery's down.
The people ride in a hole in the groun'.
New York, New York, it's a helluva town!

My sentiments exactly.
Signed,

Petra. 

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...

What Becomes A Legend Most

"...and here is Petra wearing a fabulous cerise corduroy coat with faux shearling trim, the chicest piece of the season and her first wardrobe item ever. Strike a pose!"*

*Model's note: It was about time. I'm from the tropics and not used to these autumnal chills. This is toasty. Thank you.

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.

I'm the 1%!

And you're fired!

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.