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Putting the Mo in Moorpark

1 Aug

Moorpark summer 008Here is where we walked this morning, and it was the perfect place, because I’m definitely a happy camper. Guess why! We’ve moved to a place with a big backyard and no stairs! The backyard is great for sunning and patrolling and general lollygagging (which is considerably more fun than it sounds…maybe lollypops should have longer sticks, so humans don’t gag on them).

Speaking of weird things that humans do, Big Red got her head shaved a few months ago to help raise money for a children’s cancer research group called St. Baldrick’s. (No, really.) Now she isn’t red at all. At first she was smooth and shiny; now she is bristly, but I’ve found that licking her head can be pretty relaxing.  We knew her hair wouldn’t be red when it started to grow in, and we were right: it’s a splotchy gray and brown. She laughed when I diplomatically called her “dappled,” and said that I wasn’t the first to liken her to a horse’s patoot, and surely wouldn’t be the last. Encouraged, I stuck with the equine theme and suggested “Old Paint,” but she said that applied more to her “henna decade,” so Lola and I aren’t sure what to call her. We shall ponder it while sunning ourselves.may 2013 021

Our new neighborhood is perfect for us. Right around the corner from Casa de Momo is a strip-mall with a donut shop and a breakfast café, both of which I sniff approvingly on our morning walks. And, believe it or not, there is a Harley Davidson shop just down the road!  I’m planning a visit soon, because where else would The Biker Chihuahua be as welcome? (Lola maybe not so much, but, hey, she’s with me.) Just the thought of those rumbling engines gives me delicious piss-chills, and makes me want to jump up and cavort for no apparent reason.

And our new backyard is perfect for cavorting. Lola runs around it in frantic figure eights, making the tight little turns of the truly obsessive. There are two sliding glass doors, and when they are both open, I chase her around in a big circle: out one door, across the lawn, in the other door and through the house, over and over. We skitter on the wooden floors and scratch up bits of grass as we go, while The Dog Mom Formerly Known As Big Red watches us, laughing and clapping in delight. She really is a simple creature, and so easily entertained. (Now I’m feeling a little misty. “Big Red” she’ll stay, because that’s how she looked at the animal shelter that fateful rainy day: tall enough to be a tad unnerving, and red enough to stand out like the proverbial turd in the punchbowl. Hey, wait…I still had my boys back then. Maybe that’s why I’m feeling nostalgic.)may 2013 026

I’d better get back to work; I’ve got a lot of places yet to investigate and christen here in the new ‘hood. Summertime, and the sniffin’s easy. Most of our neighbors like to grill and ‘cue, which is a very welcome addition to the olfactory world of living with a vegan. (“Wow! What smells so good? Is that TOFU?” said nobody, ever.) Note to self: practice sucking in cheeks so as to appear meat-deprived to neighbors. My “Howie-Do” list just gets longer and longer. I’m burning daylight, y’all. Happy Dog Days!

Gobble, Gobble!

22 Nov

Gobble, Gobble!

Here are some things I’m thankful for today: my sunshine time in the morning, Lola when she’s asleep, car rides, the kind of back-scratching that makes me curl my lip like Elvis, long walks, the dog park, and Big Red’s distaste for dog sweaters. The list goes on and on, because there are lots of people and things I’m thankful for, and not just today, but every day. Dogs actually spend a lot of time being thankful; it’s part of our daily routine. If we saved it up for only one day out of the whole year, we’d be just as exhausted and cranky and ravenous as most people seem to be around this time. Spread it out, I say; pace yourself. (Also, I’m not sure why people dedicate a whole day to celebrate some people in funny hats who stole everything from the Indians. I mean, I enjoy snatching a toy or a bone away from Lola every now and then, but I wouldn’t dedicate a whole day to it.)

If I did, though, my special celebration food of choice would be Vienna Sausages. It seems impossible that anyone could be unacquainted with these tubular boons, but they are bite-sized weenies from Sigmund Freud’s own hometown. You can make your own joke about that. (For some reason, the label says that they’re made in New Jersey rather than The City of Music, but no matter.) They’re chock-full of “mechanically separated” chicken, water, beef, pork, salt and corn syrup, so your purchase keeps lots of machines employed and embraces all the major food groups! Plus, the can has a cool pop-top, and the only side dish you need is a good burp followed by a long nap. Vienna Sausage = Party in a Can! The holiday doesn’t have to be complicated, although I know that humans enjoy that sort of thing.

Finally, I’m very thankful for you, my loyal readers. What’s the point of telling stories if nobody listens? You might as well be Lola. (haha) And, all you dogs reading this, remember that our coyote brothers and sisters are getting pretty hungry these days, so keep your people on a leash when you’re out walking, no matter how well-trained they are. Happy Howie-days!




5 Sep

This is what I’m doing today. The last glimpse my people had of me, however, was trembly and droopy-tailed, with my head lowered and my eyes moist. Hopefully, it’s seared into their retinas and laying heavily in their guts like half a dozen hastily gobbled Krispy Kremes. You see, my people are away.

They call it “vacation.” This appears to be a two-legger term for spending a lot of money to put stuff in a bag and then hurry to get somewhere. Once there, they take the stuff out of the bag, then proceed to eat, sleep and poop in a strange place. (I’m thinking it must take a lot of time to go around and pee on everything at the new place, and that’s why they’re gone so long.) Then, as I understand it, they put the stuff back in the bag and hurry to get into something uncomfortable that finally brings them back to me.

I, meanwhile, am “visiting.” The people here are very hospitable and polite enough to not laugh out loud at the complicated directions for my care that my people gave them. I spend most of my time here basking in the sun and checking in with the neighboring dogs on a rotating basis. I make the rounds. But the best part is B-Randy. A great Amazon of a Yorkie, B is the very essence of humpability. I tell you, if I could bottle that backside, I’d be firing people from the yacht.  B will usually sit quite patiently while I play pop goes the weasel, almost ignoring my masterful ministrations, whipping me into a hellacious hump-frenzy.

Sometimes (to make the game more interesting, I suppose), he’ll move away at a critical moment, leaving me to dig a trench of frustrated despair as I slink off to self-soothe. Then the game begins again. My short-term goal is great patches of B’s fur will be worn off by the time the folks get back. I’ve been practicing my nonplussed reaction to the sudden deforestation, so they’ll think I had nothing to do with it.

They’ll be so glad to see me, and I’ll be glad to be seen.  Soon we’ll be yelping and nuzzling and wagging, and sleeping together in a pack again. Oh, those people… their arcane notions about vacation may be lost on me, but they’re cute, and they’re mine, and best of all, they smell like home.


6 Aug

Long story short: get nervous when pretty, smiling girls double-team you, expecially if one of them is wearing a rubber glove. With all propers to Dr. Phil, some things are better left un-expressed, if you get my drift. (Note to self: Save the magic “carpet-rides” for when Mom and Dad aren’t looking. Apparently a dead give-away.) Luckily, we walked tonight instead of going to the dog park, where the “Green Apple”- scented shampoo would have seriously undermined my authority. Even my paws smell like the frickin’ Jolly Rancher. Must ask Dad to let me walk on some Fritos, to restore my manly foot-stank. People… jeez.