Chihuas hate winter: part II

You knew it was coming, my talking about How Tiny Dog Poops Inside. It’s unavoidable. But if you are not up for the overtly scatological, please skip ‘til next time. No hard feelings. 

Here's a cute picture to smooth/tide things over:

As hard as I try to prevent this, a couple of times a week my bare skin touches a dog turd, Tiny Dog’s digestive indoor comment about the snow outside.  Either I am stingy with the size of the poop vehicle, toilet paper, or the deposit is larger and more gravity prone than anticipated.

Today was a big one: four times I found piles that one really thinks should be smaller seeing her miniscule bone structure. But we accidentally fed her two breakfasts, sneaky beggar!, and what goes in, must come out. Sue calls her the Barbershop Pumper, the 70’s Playdoh toy where doh came out the head. Tiny Dog is like this but in reverse.

When Chibi was about to move in, her foster mom beamed how well C was paper trained.  I smiled, but inside screamed: gross!never!dealbreaker!  Our cats had passed away so we did not have any indoor pet elimination happening at our house right then, and I did not miss the litter even a little. But then my heart went into denial: It’ll be fine, I can retrain her, Look how adorable she is. Well, you better watch where you walk, lady. I am not kidding.

This is my life now: piddle pads and Nature’s Miracle enzymatic cleaner. She can occasionally be tricked into going outside if another small dog is enthusiastically headed out to pee.  But you have to catch her before a rug or pad has a quick deposit.  The fancy woven wool rugs went into the attic, the bedroom carpet got thrown out.

I finally gave up this winter, bought washable pads to coax her in the right and slightly less horrifying direction. Thank god she’s so darn cute and sweet.

Here’s Tiny’s Dog’s motto: 

Here’s a recent gravity defying statement:

Sorry. I really am.

Apparently my nostrils weren’t clean enough

I am in my early 40’s; I have let myself go, and feel worn out like a deflated tire, floppy and saggy. So I decided to improve my endurance with a stationary bike, and my core with a foam roller.

The dogs think this is fantastic. I am not moving, and can pet them. Here’s Chibi falling asleep as I hold her while I bike.

 

Atticus likes to come over and lean on me then as well, so I can scratch his bottom. He has a leaning disability.

Then there are the attempts to do yoga or use the foam roller. Please, please, dogs, stand over/on/under as I try to exercise on the floor.

It’s hard to take pictures of yourself from the ground, to show what the beasts are doing. And it makes my neck look terrible.

I gave up, had Sue do it. As you can see, my nostrils were lacking in hygiene and needed a thorough inspection via Tiny Dog’s dog mouth and persistence.

Ignore that pile of pre-laundry.

If I turn my head, she leans as far over as she can from her sternum perch, and gets at the edge of my lips, the side of my nose, an eyelid. My neck still looks awful from this angle.

 

I thought these episodes showed her sweetness, but I now think she’s just greedy. Face salt! Massage! Kisses!

Despite this, I ponder getting a used recumbent bike off Craig’s List, strapping Tiny Dog to my chest and biking to work when the temps rise again. I once saw a cat poking its head out of a person’s shoulder bag while we passed them on the bike path. The cat was totally relaxed, slowly blinking at the dogs and me, as if to say, Yo. And there is a guy in town who puts doggles and a mini leather jacket on his dog, and lets the Yorkie stick his head out from the driver’s side of the truck. And I’ve seen a few sneaked-in eentsy dogs in Baby Bjorns while shopping at the coop. So it’s not like I’d be a total weirdo, dog to my chest, zooming along on my bike.

I can’t wait for spring.

Chihuas hate winter: part I

I am just back from a 30 minute walk with the Big Guy, Atticus, and then 6 more blocks with the girls. It’s only 14 degrees out in the sun ( = windchill of 6), but the recent subzero B.S. has the tiny dogs inside, having no fun. They are BORED. Or: I am boring. There is only so much gutting of the already gutted stuffed hedgehog four dogs can do.

The Big Guy needs walks every day or he wanders around whining, sad sad sad. I get out his leash and the tiny dogs dance, and Georgie starts to bark. No, I say, Too cold, as if they get it. They don’t. I think they feel as if every day when the back door opens, it will be Florida out there.

But today, heartened by sun and blue skies and warmed by the Big Guy’s walk, I got out the small leashes and harnesses and jackets, and we went out for a few minutes.

I have to take all three; if I leave Tiny Dog she howls from the house like a teeny wolf, and you can feel her despair straight into your bones.

Chibi is good for about one house’s worth of sidewalk and then gets up on her hind feet to ask me to pick her up. She’s wearing her double reds today: Canadian red fleece turtleneck, then the Santa jacket over that. It’s only so briefly seasonally appropriate, but it’s also the only hoodie she has to cover her heat losing fruit bat ears. And yeah, some guy driving by us on the street had the biggest smile as he passed the two pulling chihuas below on leashes, and the tucked in red-hatted Chi above. I am that lady in the neighborhood. Don’t go back and tell my 25 year old self please. She had felt so very cool in her Fluevogs walking her Lab cross.

Rosy-cheeked, hoodie-depressed.

I have a confession. I have a six pound dog and she wears sweaters. There are the two hound's-tooth acrylic turtlenecks, the pink fleece “horse” blanket (we call it her My Little Pony look), a fleece lined turquoise plaid rain coat, a Santa jacket with pom-pommed hoodie. Our friends even brought a four-footied pink coat back from Eastern Europe with some perplexing ESL text on the back (“Hopping to see a world,/A heaven in a wild fower,/Hold infinity in the plam of your hand,/And Eternity/In an Hour.”

I have another confession. I have two other chihuahuas as well, mixes, and they have sweaters too. And two of them had matching outfits until one got too fat, little sausage in her sweater casing. O, Madam Plumpiness, Georgie.

How did this happen? I blame two things: 1. My job 2. My softening, near middle-aged heart. As a vet, I came across all three of the little ladies: one in a hoarder rescue operation, and two from a local rescue, who came into the clinic. The first, Wrennie, is a probable Chi-terrier, and it was love at first exam. I was volunteering to help evaluate and document the 400 dogs seized in a cruelty case. Wren came to my station in mere randomness, and the minute I put my hands on her, she turned and licked my hand. The second dog, George Eliot, came into the clinic for a pregnancy check-up. She was rescued from Milwaukee and was knocked up. She waddled out of her carrier, and that was that: O, you sassy Chi-weenie. Number three was in foster for six months because she had dry eye, could not make tears, and needed eye drops 2-3 times a day. I kept running into her foster mom since her house was in my neighborhood dog walking loop, and my heart would teeter every time I saw Coco. But I was strong, until Julie said she was moving to Florida, and would I take little C?

Chibi before leaving the shelter for foster.

Lord, I did. We renamed her Chibi, and the first time I walked her on her pink string of a leash, I was embarrassed. I mean, she was minute, you could barely feel her on the end of the leash, and people stared. And smiled.

My first dog in my early 20’s was an 80 pound lab cross, love of my life, who lived 14 gentle years. Then the dogs kept getting smaller: Taiko, 55 lbs, Gracie, 30 lbs, then Wren (13), George (11), and finally Chibi.

I am smitten, I have lost my mind. I drive with Chibi zipped inside my coat.

My friends who knew Ouzel, the first dog, ask me: What happened? How is this possible? Julie, the foster mom, said chihuas are clannish, that they do better in groups. I scoffed, I laughed. But she is right. Look at the first picture, for god’s sake.

Thank you, Julie.