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.

I Love The Nightlife...

You are not the only ones who get to go out on the town, humans.
Last night I went to a bar in Williamsburg to listen to some live music from the 1930's, exquisitely sung by my friend and chanteuse extraordinaire, Ganda.
I ate many peanuts, danced with a debonair man named Doug, and I would have had a shot of whiskey if someone had the good manners to offer.
Alas, there are no pictures because the one paparazza who tried to sneak snapshots of me complained I was too wiggly.
Not content with so much excitement in one night, the minute I got home, I got my second wind.
Tonight, after coming back from my 9-month birthday celebration and Three Kings party in Queens, I rendered useless an entire pack of toilet paper, and left the living room rug looking like a feral werewolf engaged on a deathmatch with Cottonelle. I was given a risible time out in my trailer and an even more ridiculous dressing down. (It won't work unless they stop laughing while they pretend to discipline me).
Of this, there is evidence:

Here's moi, feigning innocence:

The above mess I managed right after the time out, as soon as I was out of jail. Serves them right.

Cause I love the nightlife, I like to boogie, on the disco aha oh yeah!

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.

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?

You talkin' to me?

Wow. A pigeon that swims. I never saw that coming.

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...