Monday, June 27, 2011
I found my dog Petra's diary behind the couch and I am reading it. Pipe down, people. She's a dog, okay? She's not gonna find out. Here is what she has to say so far:
June 21, 2011
They put me inside the belly of a plane in a cage for three hours. Did they tell me where the hell we were going? No. Did they ask me if I wanted to go anywhere, let alone emigrate? I know they mean well, but you don't put a two month old baby in a cage. They got me out in Miami, and from there I travelled coach. Not bad, but if you ask me, it's not that different from cargo. There is actually more leg room in cargo.
June 22, 2011
Apparently I am in a place called New York City now. It's freaking noisy, I can tell you that. What's with the sirens? And the human hollering? Is this a zoo? Anyway, what I like about it is there are a lot of other people like me, with four legs and wet noses. I want to meet everybody! I like em all. Dogs, kids, adults, feet, leaves that blow in the wind. I like anything that moves. I kinda like this New York City. I have a nice yard downstairs, and boy, are the sidewalks a smorgasbord of chewing goodness! Cigarette butts, weeds, chicken bones, all kinds of poop (including human, I'm afraid). The asphalt jungle, indeedy!
June 23, 2011
The very official looking customs agent at the big airport was so thrilled with me, he took his glove off to pet me. I have that effect on people. They all go "OMG! SOOOO CUUUUUTE!" every time they see me. My owners say they can't walk two steps without someone stopping by and asking about my age, gender, breed. "Is it a puppy?", they ask. No, it's a dinosaur, what do you think?
Enchilada confessed that she was happier when she didn't have all the neighbors cooing and making small talk at all times. Imagine, she hasn't even brushed her teeth or combed her hair (as if) and she needs to get into some inane dog chitchat first thing in the morning; when B.P (Before Petra), she could be a verbissener New Yorker who barely said "good morning" in the elevator. She claims she liked her anonymity then. She thinks that this is how supermodels or movie stars must feel at all times and claims she was invisible until I came along. Hey, it's not my fault that I'm a charmer. If you don't like this, you should have gotten a tarantula.
June 26, 2011
Okay. Someone please explain to me the big deal with the peeing and the pooing. 'Cause it just don't make any sense to me. Every twenty minutes they scoop me up and take me down as if the house was on fire and then they put me on the street as if they are waiting for the Second Coming of Christ. I pee, and they almost throw a parade in my honor. Such celebration! But I do the same at home (which as far as I can tell is much less inconvenient for everyone) and they get all bent out of shape about it! They pretend to be really angry and get all serious and yell NO, PETRA! (but I can tell it breaks their hearts to read me the riot act. I just look at them with my big round eyes and I cock my head to the side and they virtually dissolve).
So make up your minds! When I do it at home I'm saving you the trouble of taking me out. And what's three little drops of pee to you anyway? You got the Windex thing going on and it seems to be working. Stop the drama.
The poop, I understand, is another matter. That's kinda gross even to me. But the other night they had the audacity to go to the movies and they left me all alone in this huge apartment, so I'm like, you cannot expect me to hold it in (or perhaps you can, but I'm not gonna). You cannot leave me here all by myself and go to the movies. You don't do that to a two month old baby. So I did it on the carpet. Maybe they'll think twice about not taking me to the movies ever again.