Hey, y’all, it’s Chi-ping. Do you like that? I learned y’all in New Orleans, sounded so colorful. I’m colorful, so I use it.
The neighbors here aren’t as friendly as I remembered them; not bad, but not so welcoming, as I thought they would.
When I come running toward her, she yells, “Good girl, yeah!” I show off and run even faster, if it’s possible up hill. She gets excited easily.
Honestly, I try not to shit and pee in the house, but sometimes it just happens. Like last night, there I was pushing out the last nugget, when I realized I’m in the house. I let out a whimper so loud. She hopped out of bed. I ran to the door to get the hell away from the poop. I skid through a puddle, oh, no, here she comes. I got really small. It was dark, maybe, she didn’t see me. I crept close to the wall, bam, back in bed before she turned the light on.
She picked me up kindly enough, but I could feel that she was peeved. It’s funny how you just know these things. Tucked under her arm, without a chance to protest, still so stunned this wasn’t just another dream, shit, I was hoping to wake up and still be in the bed.
Next thing you know I am standing on the carport and the light goes off. The only comfort I got was from Blondie, who was bouncing in front of me to go check out the new dog at my old digs. Blondie must be over her fear of going out at night. She’s all ready to go. Me, I just shit and peed. I’m ready to go back to sleep.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Thursday, January 10, 2013
A Pet's Lament
Hi, Chi-ping here again.
I am so happy to be back in Puerto Rico, where I can get out to run. That walking on the leash thing we did back in New Orleans was getting old. Always what direction she wanted to go in, no pooping over here. She micro managed everything; including what tidbits is could munch on. Imagine being denied fresh cat dukie. Back in the street with my friends; what could be better.
Blondie is all wacked out; not wanting to leave the house, and will not go out after dark. Can you imagine a big brave dog like that? I got her to go visit the neighbors this afternoon. Blondie was in the street ready to chase cars, like old times, when she whistled. Blondie ran back home. Me, I stayed at the neighbors just to show her.
We’re on the outs anyway. She can’t expect me to remember to do my stuff outside. I was raised in a house to go on papers. This crazy woman thinks I should do it outside. When you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go. I say she should put papers down and ease up.
She doesn’t let Blondie out with me too often because I lead her away from the house. At the other house, where I lived down the hill, there’s another dog. I’ll bet that’s her fault too.
If she didn’t give me all those good little treats and pet so well, I’d be out of here in nothing. I don’t know what Blondie sees in her. There’s something to be said for being on the street and running your own life.
I am so happy to be back in Puerto Rico, where I can get out to run. That walking on the leash thing we did back in New Orleans was getting old. Always what direction she wanted to go in, no pooping over here. She micro managed everything; including what tidbits is could munch on. Imagine being denied fresh cat dukie. Back in the street with my friends; what could be better.
Blondie is all wacked out; not wanting to leave the house, and will not go out after dark. Can you imagine a big brave dog like that? I got her to go visit the neighbors this afternoon. Blondie was in the street ready to chase cars, like old times, when she whistled. Blondie ran back home. Me, I stayed at the neighbors just to show her.
We’re on the outs anyway. She can’t expect me to remember to do my stuff outside. I was raised in a house to go on papers. This crazy woman thinks I should do it outside. When you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go. I say she should put papers down and ease up.
She doesn’t let Blondie out with me too often because I lead her away from the house. At the other house, where I lived down the hill, there’s another dog. I’ll bet that’s her fault too.
If she didn’t give me all those good little treats and pet so well, I’d be out of here in nothing. I don’t know what Blondie sees in her. There’s something to be said for being on the street and running your own life.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Home
Hi,
It’s me, Chi-ping. So much has happened. Somebody must tell you, even if she won’t. We’re back in Puerto Rico, where it’s warm. Don’t let anybody tell you New Orleans doesn’t get cold. I liked to freeze the tip of my tail off. Maybe, that’s why some of those dogs from the states don’t have tails. They froze off. It’s really frightening.
I flew home with my folks and the crabby cat, Smoki. He’s always showing me his front paw, like it has a thorn in it or something. He thinks I’m afraid of him. Hah, I laugh at his puny weapon. I snapped at him once in the bed. She tapped my butt with the remote control, which insulted me. I showed her. I went to the end of the bed to lay down. How she could take that old cat’s side; I don’t know.
As I walked through the airport with my tail held high, people looked at me, smiled and pointed. I felt like a star, until she put me in a bag, and stuck something down my throat. The lights went out a little later.
When I woke up we were in Aguadilla. I went outside to potty. This man kept pointing at me saying,” Boricua dog, Boricua dog.” Well, of course. I guess that’s just another thing I’m famous for, like traveling.
When we got out of the car, I ran right down the hill to tell everybody I was home. The lady, who took care of me when I became a street dog, chased me out of her yard. She must be so upset that she didn’t get to come with, so that’s what jealousy looks like. It’s not too pretty, I’ll tell you. I bounced up the hill my house, my house; I’m not a street dog.
The folks went to pick up Blondie after midnight, leaving Smoki and I to spend some quality time. She thinks she’s funny, when she tells me shit like that. Everybody knows dogs protect the house. I bark alarm. That bossy cat doesn’t. I’ll never know what she sees in him.
Blondie jumped around, all happy when she got home, but then went into a blue funk like you’ve never seen. She didn’t know if she was a pet or a street dog. She acted afraid to go into the house. I showed her several times. It didn’t help. She can be a bit slow, if you know what I mean.
See, I told you a lot has happened.
It’s me, Chi-ping. So much has happened. Somebody must tell you, even if she won’t. We’re back in Puerto Rico, where it’s warm. Don’t let anybody tell you New Orleans doesn’t get cold. I liked to freeze the tip of my tail off. Maybe, that’s why some of those dogs from the states don’t have tails. They froze off. It’s really frightening.
I flew home with my folks and the crabby cat, Smoki. He’s always showing me his front paw, like it has a thorn in it or something. He thinks I’m afraid of him. Hah, I laugh at his puny weapon. I snapped at him once in the bed. She tapped my butt with the remote control, which insulted me. I showed her. I went to the end of the bed to lay down. How she could take that old cat’s side; I don’t know.
As I walked through the airport with my tail held high, people looked at me, smiled and pointed. I felt like a star, until she put me in a bag, and stuck something down my throat. The lights went out a little later.
When I woke up we were in Aguadilla. I went outside to potty. This man kept pointing at me saying,” Boricua dog, Boricua dog.” Well, of course. I guess that’s just another thing I’m famous for, like traveling.
When we got out of the car, I ran right down the hill to tell everybody I was home. The lady, who took care of me when I became a street dog, chased me out of her yard. She must be so upset that she didn’t get to come with, so that’s what jealousy looks like. It’s not too pretty, I’ll tell you. I bounced up the hill my house, my house; I’m not a street dog.
The folks went to pick up Blondie after midnight, leaving Smoki and I to spend some quality time. She thinks she’s funny, when she tells me shit like that. Everybody knows dogs protect the house. I bark alarm. That bossy cat doesn’t. I’ll never know what she sees in him.
Blondie jumped around, all happy when she got home, but then went into a blue funk like you’ve never seen. She didn’t know if she was a pet or a street dog. She acted afraid to go into the house. I showed her several times. It didn’t help. She can be a bit slow, if you know what I mean.
See, I told you a lot has happened.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Katrina Cats
Cats! They’re everywhere herds of them, hiding in yards, laying beneath parked cars. You can see the “scared” in their eyes. They trust no one like Scully and Mulder.
The black cat is the keeper of the X-files, urban kitty lore of a time before the storm, when they were treated kindly on porches, or invited inside to ferret out tasty little rodents, that made women scream. Black cat said that “Our Kind was worshiped and adored before the storm,” something about a black plague.
Black cats are the eternal keepers of kitty knowledge. This explains the religious hating and fear through the ages.
Cats of other colors do what they must to make it through the day, avoiding dogs or moving car parts. The search for a meal takes so much energy. Fresh meat, a thing of the past in this neighborhood; when was the last time you saw a mouse?
Black cat said living was easy for a time after the storm. Rats and mice and tasty rodents he couldn’t name ran all over the city. The living was easy.
There isn’t a living cat on the street from that time of plenty. Progress took care of that. Descendants hear the tale in the cool of evening from the black cat, while they wait for the meals that don’t come.
Yes, I know this isn't about dogs. Hope you like it anyway. Tricia
The black cat is the keeper of the X-files, urban kitty lore of a time before the storm, when they were treated kindly on porches, or invited inside to ferret out tasty little rodents, that made women scream. Black cat said that “Our Kind was worshiped and adored before the storm,” something about a black plague.
Black cats are the eternal keepers of kitty knowledge. This explains the religious hating and fear through the ages.
Cats of other colors do what they must to make it through the day, avoiding dogs or moving car parts. The search for a meal takes so much energy. Fresh meat, a thing of the past in this neighborhood; when was the last time you saw a mouse?
Black cat said living was easy for a time after the storm. Rats and mice and tasty rodents he couldn’t name ran all over the city. The living was easy.
There isn’t a living cat on the street from that time of plenty. Progress took care of that. Descendants hear the tale in the cool of evening from the black cat, while they wait for the meals that don’t come.
Yes, I know this isn't about dogs. Hope you like it anyway. Tricia
Monday, May 21, 2012
Satos in The Big Easy
Blondie and Chi-ping, my independent street dogs are becoming house pets with proper indoor manners. Except for the time Blondie watched Smoki, the cat jump on the kitchen table and decided to follow him.
A swift verbal correction prevented the leap in time. With a glass table top we were lucky to be there. That’s been the biggest yikes, so far.
When Blondie first arrived in New Orleans, every dog we’d meet out walking, Blondie greeted with a long string of barks, not the threatening stay out of my territory barks given to interlopers in Puerto Rico, but sounded friendly.
She has learned to walk past most dogs, but still tries to communicate with a few, who seem to be her favorites. The big male Pit bull named, Gumbo, who lives down the block, is a particular favorite. They could frolic, if given a chance.
Blondie is now a sewer inspector, she knows that strange critters come out of them. The brave hunter and chicken killing bitch wants to tangle with the North American Raccoon, or so she thinks not having met one, yet.
Our biggest problem is that the neighborhood is infested with cats. Some late nights, when we go walking, there is a cat under every car and a couple in the middle of the street. One night she’ll walk pass all, like the good dog I want her to be, and the next night she bark and whine, jumping up and down having a temper tantrum. I wanna get the kitty!
One night with the help of her pal, Chi-ping, I thought they would knock me down. She can only be good for so long and then all hell breaks.
Blondie no longer puts her front paws on trees to run up after the squirrels. She has given up on that. She will sit at the base of the tree staring at the squirrel, trying to figure out a way to get it. They must be deemed as fairly impossible, since she no longer has the frustrated barking, jump up and down tantrums for squirrels; unless she gets very close.
A couple of weeks ago, she killed a chicken on my aunt’s farm, while dragging a twenty foot long line. I didn’t know chickens to be that slow. Anyway Blondie is banned from the farm.
On a brighter note, when the community college or the baseball field across the street have tons of people and children mingling around, both dogs walk through crowds like seasoned city dogs.
For all the dogs’ fervor to catch a kitty outside, Smoki rules with a quick paw in the house. This old fossil of a cat gets in Blondie’s face giving her a couple of good smacks, while hissing sounding so impatient. She puts her ears back and backs off. Kirt will holler at him to which Smoke will turn around to give Kirt a dirty look. I figure it’s a guy thing.
A swift verbal correction prevented the leap in time. With a glass table top we were lucky to be there. That’s been the biggest yikes, so far.
When Blondie first arrived in New Orleans, every dog we’d meet out walking, Blondie greeted with a long string of barks, not the threatening stay out of my territory barks given to interlopers in Puerto Rico, but sounded friendly.
She has learned to walk past most dogs, but still tries to communicate with a few, who seem to be her favorites. The big male Pit bull named, Gumbo, who lives down the block, is a particular favorite. They could frolic, if given a chance.
Blondie is now a sewer inspector, she knows that strange critters come out of them. The brave hunter and chicken killing bitch wants to tangle with the North American Raccoon, or so she thinks not having met one, yet.
Our biggest problem is that the neighborhood is infested with cats. Some late nights, when we go walking, there is a cat under every car and a couple in the middle of the street. One night she’ll walk pass all, like the good dog I want her to be, and the next night she bark and whine, jumping up and down having a temper tantrum. I wanna get the kitty!
One night with the help of her pal, Chi-ping, I thought they would knock me down. She can only be good for so long and then all hell breaks.
Blondie no longer puts her front paws on trees to run up after the squirrels. She has given up on that. She will sit at the base of the tree staring at the squirrel, trying to figure out a way to get it. They must be deemed as fairly impossible, since she no longer has the frustrated barking, jump up and down tantrums for squirrels; unless she gets very close.
A couple of weeks ago, she killed a chicken on my aunt’s farm, while dragging a twenty foot long line. I didn’t know chickens to be that slow. Anyway Blondie is banned from the farm.
On a brighter note, when the community college or the baseball field across the street have tons of people and children mingling around, both dogs walk through crowds like seasoned city dogs.
For all the dogs’ fervor to catch a kitty outside, Smoki rules with a quick paw in the house. This old fossil of a cat gets in Blondie’s face giving her a couple of good smacks, while hissing sounding so impatient. She puts her ears back and backs off. Kirt will holler at him to which Smoke will turn around to give Kirt a dirty look. I figure it’s a guy thing.
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