Several years ago, shortly after we moved into our house, I decided to buy Kenny a dog. Since we’re both fairly OCD about our house, a short-hair, small breed seemed more practical, so I found a light tan Chihuahua puppy and promptly plunked down $400 to take her home.
A few months later, she was up to 14 pounds. We took her to the vet, where Kenny held her up like baby Simba on The Lion King, and asked Dr. Dave, “Is this a Chihuahua?” Doc cracked up. “Nope. That’s what you call a ‘Rat-Cha.’ She’s PART Chihuahua, but MOSTLY she’s a Rat Terrier.” “But we paid $400 for a Chihuahua,” replied Kenny. “Then you got hosed,” Doc said, “because that’s a Rat Terrier. And you can get one for about 50 bucks.” What the hell. By that time, Kenny and Chi-Chi were besotted with each other and she ran the house.
Since Chi-Chi was without question Kenny’s dog, I decided to get one for ME. One month later, I happily brought home Paco. He’s a sturdy (okay, fat) little guy that lives to eat, sleep, and cuddle. Kenny says he’s completely useless (“May as well have a cat,” he points out with only slightly annoying regularity). I’ve tried every doggie diet plan I can think of, but since he’s arguably the most sedentary dog on the planet, he burns roughly 3 calories a day, while sharing my passion for cinnamon rolls and cheese-in-a-can.
The ONE thing that will get Paco off his hairless hind-end is the neighbor’s cat. Pippy is twice Paco’s size and runs like a Cheetah, but she can get Paco going like nobody’s business. WHY he thinks he can catch her, and exactly what he’s going to DO with her if he does, will forever remain a mystery, particularly since she could kick the crap out of him with one paw tied behind her back.
But this morning, Pippy strolled across our yard, waving her over-fluffed tail to make sure Paco saw her, and the chase was on. Paco tore out of the house as fast as his short little legs would travel, while Pippy bent low and sprang into action. I dropped my breakfast and raced out, bunny slippers and pink bathrobe a-flyin’, chasing Paco across the schoolyard. (Did I forget to mention he’s not the smartest dog in the kennel and can’t remember where he lives if he gets further than 2 houses away? If you can’t see him, he can’t find you.)
Fact: Dogs can’t catch cats, and middle-aged women in bathrobes can’t catch dogs chasing cats. (The two 18-yr-old studs we blew past MIGHT have helped if they weren’t doubled over laughing…)
Two blocks later, Pippy’s vanished and I’m carrying my exhausted, defeated pup home. Don’t feel bad, little guy. She’ll be back tomorrow.