Old Acquaintances and Facebook Adventures

Hello everyone,

It has been a very long time since I have communicated with my fans via my blog. My discovery of Facebook provided me with a much easier means of documenting my daily adventures. It also allowed me to make a plethora of friends, many of whom I would have never had a chance to meet since I am held prisoner here by the man and his accomplices. I am always getting friend requests from my fans, and now I have more followers than the 8 measly friends I have on my blog (though I appreciate those fans very much).

Yet my Facebook adventure was almost thwarted at the very start; again I was the victim of discrimination and had to use my brilliant mind to combat the injustice. It seems because of my age, 3 years, Facebook did not want to acknowledge my existence even though in dog years I am old enough to rent a car, drink a boozy lemonade or brewskie, or vote to ensure healthcare for all chihuahuas (after my broken leg incident and bout with lactose intolerance, this is a big deal)! Therefore when you look at my FB profile, realize I stated my age in dog years.

Like I was saying, Facebook has been giving me a great opportunity to communicate with others, and I have reconnected with many old friends. There was one friend, however, I just could not find; and my greatest fear was that I was correct last year when I predicted his untimely death at the hands of the man on this very blog. My nearest confidant, the tree, just could not be found.

I searched for him tirelessly and typed in every alias he could have been using: Evergreen Jenkins, Tree Smith, Piney Bensing, Branchy Fuzzibottom, Bob Needlestein, Mark Twain, and Alexander MacGuyver Trunksworthy...I knew for certain in an effort to escape the clutches of the man, who was determined to dismember him, he would not use his real name..."Christmas Tree."

I was down in the dumps, thinking I would never have contact with the tree again. Then a Christmas miracle happened...

The tree came back!

I could not believe my googly eyes, and I danced around him and barked in disbelief as the people tied him up with twinkle-light shackles and weighed him down with colorful, decorated weights. Obvious to this chihuahua, the tree was once again the man's prisoner, but he was alive!!! It became clear to me the tree was in shock, for as I reacquainted myself with him, he spoke nary a word and tried to injure me defensively by showering me with pointy needles. I did not take this personal, for I still consider the tree my closest ally, but instead I promised I will do all I can to set him free and exact revenge upon the man once and for all. Maybe I can recruit the feline to knock off some of his decorative weights or chew on the wires that hold the tree hostage.

Until that time comes, I will visit the tree daily and share a drink with him. Now that I clearly know the man's intentions this year, I will be sure to save the tree...

or at least get him on Facebook so I finally will have someone to click "like" underneath my comments and help me with Mafia Wars.

Until later, check my FB status for updates, people. I encourage all of my FB amigos out there to become official followers of my blog!!!


Feliz Navidad.
Z.

It's So Hard to Say Good-bye

Today is a very sad day in the world of chihuahuas. My mentor, idol, and inspiration has suddenly passed at the tender age of 15. Yes, Gidget, the Taco Bell chihuahua is no more, apparently the victim of a stroke. I will remember her fondly for the impact she had on my life: my national pride, my dream of becoming a celebrity, my strangely masculine voice, and my love of greasy fast food.

I know that many chihuahuas resented Gidget, saying she "sold out" and went "Spuds Mackenzie" on us, causing many stupid humans to stereotype us. I, however, disagree because I feel she has created an identity for us. We are now taken seriously in the world of show business as talented spokesdogs who can sell anything with our dynamic personalities and stunning looks.

So I will eat a chalupa and sing a song of rememberance for Gidget. She was an icon and the most influential actor since the "Where's the Beef" lady.

Today my heart is heavy with grief and so is my stomach, for I do not know what was in that darn chalupa. Truly not the breakfast of champions; ugh.

Adios Gidget.

Z.

Stage Fright

This is a funny country, and the more I learn about it through my experiences, the more confused I become.

First of all, the Declaration of Independence states the all men are created equal, and one would think that "men" is a generic word that also refers to all Americans: women, illegal immigrants, Denise Austin, and chihuahuas. That, however, is just not true; chihuahuas have not rights whatsoever.

Let me explain...it seems whenever the humans go away to some far away destination, no chihuahuas are allowed. I have yet to be invited to any of these excursions, and it really gets me down in the dumps. In fact just last week I caught wind the humans were taking a "cruise", and I became very excited. I packed my satchel with rawhide bones, my giraffe t-shirt, collars (a pink one and a versatile little black one, of course), and my 10-nipple bikini top. I had plans of standing on the railing, squinting with the racing wind blowing back my ears and yelling, "I am king of the world!" My excitement was short lived, for I learned quickly that only the women were going on this cruise. I assumed I, once again, was off to the "kennel," a glorified word for a prison where I and the other inmates would sleep on hard cement floors and wail incessantly until we'd be bailed out by the humans.

I was wrong; it was even worse. I would be forced into spending the entire week with the man, ALONE!!!

It did not take long for the dictatorship to take effect. On the first day, the man woke me at 6 am, and I, sleepy eyed and taken from a glorious dream I was having about earning a perfect score on "Pet Star," was carried forcefully to the kitchen where he collared me and dragged me outside. He told me to "do pee-pees," and it sounded so stupid coming from his lips. I could sense a false sense of sincerity in his voice, and the grass was cold, wet, and high enough to goose my bottom. Regardless, I did my duty just so I could return to the warm bed and continue my dream.

What happened next was just awful. I figured I'd take the lead, and I trotted toward the sliding door, having accomplished the task at hand. That is when I was stopped dead in my tracks. I looked up at the man's unsatisfied eyes, and as if his mouth were moving in slow motion, I heard a baritone voice demand "POOOOOOOOOOOOOOPIES!"

I did not know what to do. I was being asked to perform on command, and to make it worse, he had led me to the front yard where all the joggers and their canines would be watching as I squatted and strained myself, trying to force out the kibble, weeds, dead worms, and other neat things I had eaten the day before. It would be the end of my social life on Deerfield Drive. My classy reputation would totally be ruined, especially if that busy-body mutt from down the street saw me in mid-poop. She'd yip and yap this to everyone! Plus I was saving my next poop for the man's office carpet.

All I could think about was getting it over with; then maybe no one would see me. I gave the man one more "are you freakin' kidding me" look and then prepared myself to unload. I found a spot in the grass that reminded me of the man's face, and I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes. I took in some deep breaths and squeezed my darndest until finally the poop started to come out. I opened my eyes...no joggers were coming up the street, no neighbors were outside, and even the newspaper man was nowhere to be seen. Everything was going to be okay...at least I thought so, until...

...it got stuck.

I had gotten what is commonly referred to as "stage fright."

Halfway home and steaming like no one's business, the turd would go no farther! I clenched and squeezed again, I wiggled my rear end, I dipped and ducked...nothing.

I once more looked up at the man, who was growing impatient even though the whole stupid idea was his. He kept saying, "Come on, Zoey...you can do it!" What an idiot! Of course I can do it, but when a turd gets stuck there is not much you can do but wait! He didn't even bring me a magazine to read. The next time he's sitting on the pot, I plan on saying the same thing to him to see how he likes it.

The ever-present sharpherd started barking and running in a circle like a moron, creating a commotion and drawing attention to us. Great. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a neighbor walking up the street. I knew if I didn't finish this squat, I would be humiliated. I had one more trick in my book...the chihuahua shake.

I began my trademark shiver, and like the magic of David Copperfield the turd dropped off my behind. I quickly scratched some grass over it and began to sprint toward the safety of the garage; once I reached it I began sniffing the air with a look of disgust so that the neighbor thought the sharpherd was the one who dropped off the present in the front yard.

I survived the incident, but the man had won the battle. Later in the week, after more incidents like this, I had my revenge. While I was inside napping, he mowed the grass with his precious new lawn tractor and I heard him scream, "What is that on my tire?!?!"

A small smile crept onto my lips as I slowly mouthed the word "POOOOOPIES."

Ha! Take that!

Z.

Rotten Eggs

Waiting by the glass sliding door...eyes peeled...scanning the area like a soaring eagle ...sinewy legs flexed and ready to strike...war cry on the tip of my tongue...I had been waiting for this moment for some time. The door opening, I sprinted across the patio to the softness of the grass in search of the pastel colored spheroids I knew were hidden in the yard even though I am color-blind due to the fact that I am a canine.

I was in search of eggs;
Eggs laid by a rabbit.
Eggs more colorful than the hues of the most splendid pinata.
Eggs that would change my life forever.

Why? I don't really know, but that is how badly I wanted some rabbit eggs.

Sniffing the grounds, I realized this rabbit was more clever than the stuffed and porcelain caricatures of it that littered the house, and the eggs were totally off my radar. Their elusiveness made me crave them even more, and I had begun having flashbacks of the time I stole the man's egg and cheese sandwich, eating it behind the couch with a tangible glee that lasted for weeks even though the eggs gave me terrible gas. I must admit that side effect also proved useful, for I unleashed a barrage upon the man that made him keep his distance and not seek revenge.

The more I looked and found nothing, the more frustrated I became, so much that I had to stop searching and think of what the problem was. I concluded that once again the man was behind the egglessness and that he probably captured the rabbit and tortured it as he had the tree. I put my search on hold to investigate his whereabouts, and what I found was shocking and fiendish. The man was in the kitchen, in broad daylight, and he had the rabbit in his hand.

The rabbit was not what I had imagined...it was dark brown and had hidden itself in a box. Reading the box more closely, I found the rabbit had a name, Russell Stover; but old Russell was about to meet his demise. The man had him in his clutches, much like my old friend the tree; and in what seemed like slow motion he bit down hard into Russell's flesh, which oddly smelled much like a Hershey bar, severing the rabbit's ears in a symbolic gesture that told me my protruding sound catchers just might be next.

I let out a sharp bark while the man smiled at me and mockingly told me I could not share his perverse snack because dogs could not eat chocolate. Chocolate? The sicko was eating a rabbit, the one and only Russell Stover!!!

The man went to take another bite, and that is when I met Russell's white eye with my gaze, which seemed to tell me that his sacrifice was not in vain. I was to continue looking for his magic eggs, find them, and somehow use them to avenge his death.

I sprinted back outside and once again scoured the yard for anything that might be a rabbit egg. That's when I saw it sitting in a tuft of grass that grew higher than any other tuft in the yard, an obvious sign of its magical power. I clawed through the reeds for a better look, and there it sat. Greenish-gold with a brown tint...elongated like a majestic jalapeno...it was a masterpiece of unmatched craftsmanship. I knew this was the treasure Russell Stover wanted me to find.

Quivering with excitement, I closed my eyes and opened my mouth, waiting for the greatest sensations of flavor and the accompanying fireworks of power I knew would come over me. I chomped down and swallowed in one swift motion, and that's when I absolutely knew...

...that I had not bitten into a magic rabbit egg at all.


It was one of the sharpherd's turds...a combination of kibble, cat food, grass, Cool Ranch Doritos and an old hot dog wrapper.

Needless to say, my Easter egg hunt was a major disappointment,
and I found out that Russell Stover totally sucks.

Somebody get me some Listerine.
Z.

COMING SOON...

Zoey vs. the Thermometer

HOLY CHIHUA-FRAUD, BATMAN!!!

ARRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!

Once again my music career has been stymied, and my fans must wait for my debut video. Even worse, this time I can't even blame the man. Rats!!!

Let me tell you my woeful saga.

The other day I decided to take a much needed day off from singing in order to work on augmenting my already expansive wardrobe. Our video shoot is fast approaching, and since the feline has been indisposed due to her addiction to toilet water (she is recovering nicely, by the way, and has apologized to her fans) I myself had been put in charge of picking out the costumes, choreographing our sly dance moves, and catering the whole ordeal. I'm only one dog...all 7 pounds of me!

I decided to first focus on the clothing the sharpherd and I will wear for the video. Trolling through his wardrobe, I found nothing but worn out scarves. Obviously the wrinkled stink-bomb mutt has no taste and is a one-trick-pony when it comes to fashion. How 1980s! I'm surprised I didn't find pastel-colored shirts with linebacker shoulder pads in them, a Spuds Mackenzie t-shirt or a worn out pair of Z-Cavaricci pants. Who am I dealing with here? Don Johnson? Scott Baio? "Boner" from the show Growing Pains? Without the right look, our super-group is doomed!!!

I took the lead and decided I would put together a hip look myself and then have the sharpherd match my outfit as best he can. I was thinking about adding a leather jacket, spiked collar, fish-net stockings or even perhaps a pink Winnie-the-Pooh onesy to my collection in order to give Z-Funk and the C-SHARPherds a bit of an edge. I wanted to create a look that would really catch the people's eye...something that resembles "Marilyn Manson meets Hannah Montana" with just a pinch of Elton John. Now that's a recipe for success that both Bobby Flay and Simon Cowell would love!

Anyway, on with the story. My store of choice for the shopping spree turned out to be the Country Junction. I've known many dogs who got their start there, and usually they come out looking pretty suave,or at least they get a nice discount on Yankee candles.

As I strolled through the store trying to find the petite dog clothing section, I noticed many crazy things that distracted me. There were strange mechanical people that kept repeating the same thing over and over again. I thought about purchasing one of these and programming it to strangle or stomp the man, but I just didn't have the pesos in this economy, you know? I also saw lip balm made of beeswax (without stingers I would hope), a bunch of Ashley furniture that looked great to both nap and pee on, and an old-fashioned sign that read "PRIMITIVES" (obviously this sign was meant to be nailed to the man's forehead).

What really caught my eye was a mighty lion that stood in the corner of the store. You may remember my blog entry about the lion I had befriended to protect me from the man and other foes. Unfortunately, my relationship with the lion soured and was compromised when I learned he was leaking the secrets that I keep while I'm talking in my sleep to the same enemies from whom he was to protect me!!! Because of this, the man and others learned that I have sneakily been eating the feline's cat chow and that I had a secret crush on Cesar Milan, the dog whisperer.

So if I could get this lion on my side, perhaps by purchasing his freedom, he could help me get revenge on that stuffed Judas and finish off the stupid man once and for all! Of course that would have required me to use my credit card, which I secured after the stupid credit card company sent one of their desperate applications to the house in my name, thinking that I am human and actually have a stinkin' job. Ha!

I got out the credit card and sauntered over to the new lion, adeptly trying to initiate conversation with a smooth line: "Foiling the man...priceless." I thought it was quite clever and to the point, but I was shocked that the lion did not respond to this; I sniffed around trying to find a pulse or something. After about fifteen minutes of exploration, something came over me.

All I could do was close my eyes, shake like a washing machine with uneven legs, and pray like heck...
"Oh no. Not again. Not here. Not now. Not in front of the lion, the mechanical people and everyone else!"

Plop...I dropped a poop.

It all happened so fast, all I could do was sprint in a circle and look for cover as the steam bellowed to the ceiling. I was so embarrasssed; I just knew the paparazzi was hiding in that Country Junction waiting to expose my accident.

Apparently at this moment, I also dropped my credit card, and it totally disappeared!!! I sniffed around everywhere, but I could not find it. Heartbroken and red with shame, I went home...no clothes, no fierce new lion, no plastic.

But who stole it?

Could
It
Have
Been
The
Man
???

I only wish.

Then I could have had him arrested and thrown into prison, perhaps the same kennel stall I had to live in for a few days after the mysterious yellow stain appeared on the carpet right before the tree's untimely death.

A few days later, however, I was shocked to find out the man was not the culprit, at least not directly. I was surfing the 'net, looking to see if Z-Funk was getting any press. That's when I found out that I, Zoey Grace the Chihuahua had become a victim...

...a victim of identity theft.

Some other dog, a rat in chihuahua's clothing, has become me...Zoey...Z-Funk.

Just read the article...obviously this dog does not know that I am the star, nor does she know what kinds of unspeakable acts of vengeance I am capable of.



Just ask the man.

Cut and paste this link to read about the imposter:
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/19901704/

There is only room for one...
Zoey.

Intoxicated Kitties and the Dangers of Sho-Biz

Hello everyone.

I know you are all anticipating the debut video from Z-Funk and the C-SHARPherds, the greatest musical sensation since The Spice Girls or even Power Station with Robert Palmer. The video is in production, but far more important issues have arisen. I think we all at times have an attitude of "it will never happen to me," but I have quickly learned how life in the music business can lead to some unspeakable horrors.

As you know, Tucker and I have launched our slick new musical duo. Although we are both quite attractive canines, the sharpherd and I felt we needed someone to broaden our audience and add even more sex appeal to our act. After auditioning a number of different animals, including Clyde the yellow lab who lives next door and Myrtle the guinea pig, a talented rodent from Tatamy, we decided to stay in house, hiring Matilda the feline as a back-up vocalist, dancer, and stage technician. Things were going quite well, and the feline, who put her culinary career on hold, was really jiving with the two of us. Then, as quickly as a stain can appear from under me on a white carpet, disaster struck!!!

I was casually strolling by the bathroom the other day when I saw it happen, and I still can't believe my eyes. There was the feline, shamelessly lapping up the most addictive drug known in the world of house pets - toilet water spiked with bleach. I stood there with my mouth agape and eyes googling in disbelief. It appeared that just like Lindsey Lohan or Todd Bridges of "Different Strokes" fame, success had overtaken the feline, and she obviously formed a horrible dependence on this strange elixir. I could not tell if the toilet was flushed before she decided to indulge, but either way she was definitely entering the point of no return.

My mind was racing. I didn't know what to do. The sharpherd was outside barking at the stupid mailman, so he was unable to give me any guidance; although his way of dealing with things is to run around the house like a cross-eyed, Starbucks drinking emu with an itch on its ass, so that would not have helped. The only thing I could think to do was to take a picture of the foul act and keep it so that I can either get her the help she needs, fire the feline from the group without having to honor her contract, or use it to extort her for everything she is worth by threatening to sell it to the National Inquirer(I'm leaning toward the third option).

Whatever the case, I blame either that dope Michael Phelps, Alex Rodriguez or Dick Cheyney for this horrible incident; they are such horrible role models. Or maybe it is once again the man, trying to thwart my musical aspirations as he did my culinary career and relationship with the tree (God rest its soul). I hate the man.

All I know is that if Z-Funk and the C-SHARPherds only become a one-hit-wonder, I will be promptly on the phone with VH-1's "Behind the Music" to expose the man's treachery and heinous career-ending intentions to the entire world...and you thought the Milli Vanilli story was messed up!!!

I will keep you updated.
Video hopefully coming soon...

Z-Funk

My Whereabouts

Hello faithful followers.

A RIDDLE FOR YOU...

What has four legs, no thumbs, a killer tattoo and hates the man?
THIS CHIHUAHUA!!!

I have once again taken a hiatus, and my hope is that you have not worried about me too much. I know the man is quite sinister and continues his plots to foil me, but I've got my eye on him. Anyway, the reason I have been gone for so long is that I have decided to make a career change. I have scrapped my dreams of a culinary career because of my limited ingredients and inability to wear an apron. You can only do so much with dry dog food and the occasional dropping from the man; sometimes I think he gets more on his shirt than he does in his big stupid mouth. Hmmm...now that I think of it, I will need to investigate confiscating one of his shirts for a taste test.

Back to the big picture...my new dream is to become a professional singer. If you don't already know, I have quite a set of lungs. In fact even the man stops and listens when I belt out one of my power ballads. He looks at me as if he can't believe such rich tones could come out of me. Then again, he looks at me the same way when other things come out of my other end, but that's a different story.

Plus, it seems the sharpherd wants in on this; he has surprisingly provided some really groovy and hip background vocals. My original thought was that after he got neutered he would be singing soprano for the rest of his life, but instead he belts out a soothing baritone with a quality that rivals a sober David Hasselhoff or even the great Huey Lewis (sans "The News" - ugh!). Let's just say that when we harmonize everyone stops what they are doing to take in the sweet sounds. Oh yeah; we can blow, people!

Ike and Tina.
Sonny and Cher.
Captain and Tennille.
Nick and Jessica.
Kermit and Miss Piggy.
Michael and LaToya Jackson (or is that the same person???)

ALL LOSERS!
Move over and make room for the greatest act the world has ever seen...

"Z-FUNK AND C-SHARPherds"


Our world premier video is coming soon. Stay tuned!

Well, I need a cup of herbal tea to soothe my million dollar vocal chords.
La la la la la la...
I see you tapping your foot...I'm out.
Z.

Tats and Gang Symbols

Last night I was watching MSNBC, trying to get the latest information on the upcoming inauguration when I saw a show that changed my thinking in how I should deal with the man. During an episode of "Lockup" a prisoner kept saying that "the man" was keeping him down. Despite his lack of social skills, crossed eyes, and slight yet disturbing twitch, I empathized with him due to the fact that I suffer the same plight - THE MAN.

Additionally, we both belong to a gang; I, along with the lion, am of course a member of "Zoey's BFF Spirit Squad", and the jailbird had purchased membership in one of a less serious nature - something about a Latin monarchy of some sort. I wonder if they wear those fun Burger King crowns to identify themselves. Hmmm... The lion and I will have to look into something cute like that for the "Squad."

Whatever the case, the hoodlum seemed true to his word that he wanted to get "the man", and I was on board with that sentiment. He had tattoos all over his body, including his face, and he either was trying to look intimidating or was advertising for some local business - I couldn't tell. The tattoos got me thinking; maybe I have been using improper tactics with the man. Maybe instead of using my superior mind and powers of deception, I should simply reveal my true bad-ass nature.

I consulted the lion, and he stared me in the face blankly with a look that said, "Zoey, you need to announce your authority with a killer tattoo." I was unsure at first, but as he continued to peer into my eyes, unwavering, I knew he was right. Getting a tattoo was definitely necessary.

Don't ask me how I did it, but I went through with the body art. I had a few ideas, including a skull, a machete, the word "Ouch!", and profile of Papa Smurf wearing his red hat. I decided on a big "Z" on my lower back, large enough so the man knows I'm not to be messed with and that I belong to an organization that can cause some real mayhem. It is also, however, located where I can cover it up with my "Socialite" t-shirt or my hoodie so that I can blend in with the crowd and be one of the people. The "Z" can also be used to identify me if I wander off and get lost.

Since we are in the same gang, I am waiting for the lion to get one as well. So far he hasn't, and I don't know what to think about that. Could it be the lion is a snitch working against me? Uh oh.

Trust no one.
Z.

The Man's Impending Mauling

Does it smell like updog in here, or is it just me?

Did you say, "What's up, dog?"

I bet you did, fool. Ha!

That's just a little humor from me to you. Anyway, you have probably realized by now that I am extremely clever (and quite stunning as well). I think this time, however, I have really done some of my best work, so let me give you the skinny on what's happening.

The saga of the bone wars continues to bring me stress, but I think I have found a way to keep the sharpherd from taking my bones. If you read my previous blog, you were privy to the information about the feline and her physical dominance over the sharpherd, whose aggressive and slobbery friendship techniques were met with sinister hisses and clawed swats across his rubbery lips. I have tried practicing hissing myself, but whenever I attempt it I pee myself and get a terrible itch behind my left ear. In any case, I decided to capitalize on the sharpherd's obvious fear of the feline, not by befriending her but by recruiting some heavy muscle of my own to watch my back.

While exploring a bedroom in the house looking for my Ace of Base cd, I came face to face with the most ferocious beast I have ever seen. It stared me directly in the eyes with a dead stare that made me shiver and an intimidating mane that reminded me of the scary picture on the cover of Michael Jackson's "Off the Wall" album. I heard the girl who lives here refer to the beast as a "stuffed lion", which caught my attention because a lion is the king of the jungle, and if it is "stuffed", it must have a healthy appetite. The lion really doesn't move all that much, so my powers of deduction tell me this information is factual; when I eat too much, I sometimes don't move for days until I finally drop my heavy burden somewhere on the carpet.

In order to gain the lion's trust and respect, I offered him one of my bones. I shook with nervousness at this moment, for I did not know if the lion would accept my offering or make me his next meal. Then again, I'm a chihuahua, so I shake all the time for no particular reason. I also just kept thinking, "What's up with that hair?"

Because the lion decided not to eat me, I took it as a sign that he would agree to be my ally and would help me protect my bones from the sharpherd. If that dope is scared of the feline, nothing more than a mere "house cat", the sharpherd will surely stay away from the bones if they are being guarded by the lion.

The best part about this new alliance is that Wikipedia told me the lion can indeed be a "man" eater! How perfect! Now I can protect my bones and get rid of that stupid man at the same time. Since he took so much joy in dismantling the tree, we'll see how he likes being mauled and dismembered by a freakin' lion. Once he is gone, I have first dibs on his side of the bed. Sweet.

Anyway, check out the pics of me and my lion.
We make quite a team; in fact we have been thinking of some cool team nicknames:

"Here Comes Tremble"
"Milli Vanilli"
"The Mane Burrito"
"The Boston Pee Party"
And my personal favorite..."Zoey's BFF Spirit Squad"


Eat your vegetables.
Z.

It's good to be back!

Happy New Year, Everyone!

Yes, I am back. I apologize for the absence, but I went on what can only be described as a holiday hiatus. Let me tell you; a lot happened since I last communicated with you...A LOT! All I can do is give you a run down of some of the highlights. Strap yourself in - here we go.

1. I told all of you about my unfortunate incarceration. A mysterious yellow stain appeared one day on the carpet in the conversation room. Believe me, I had nothing to do with it. I suspect it was the sharpherd or perhaps the tree getting its silent revenge on me for drinking from its reservoir. Anyway, as a result of the stain, the sharpherd and I, prime suspects, were immediately carted off to prison. The humans gleefully called it a "kennel" and talked it up like it was some kind of country club, but I wasn't fooled. I know a jail when I see one. It was awful! As we walked the green mile, all I heard were the screams, howls, and barks of various canines whose humans had deserted them. I kept my cool the whole time, while the sharpherd yelped and cried like a weenie. The other dogs looked at me like I was a jerky treat, but I just flashed them my blue steel look so that they knew not to mess with me. It must've worked, for I survived my brief stay there without an incident except for a prolonged and unwelcome sniff by some mutt named Dilbert (what a pathetic name). Eventually the humans came back and bailed the sharpherd and me out. We never did find out who was responsible for the mysterious yellow spot, but I contend it was the man trying to frame me. I've seen him pee and know what he is capable of.

2. I never did recruit the tree as an ally, and it is a good thing. Right before my eyes, the man did the most savage act I have ever seen. One morning he ruthlessly stripped the tree of all its ornaments and ripped it away from its watering hole. I was unable to secure one more drink before he dumped the tree's tasty, vintage 2008 water into the grass. The man proceeded to drag the tree by its trunk out to the yard where he tore it to shreds, murdering the poor tree, literally tearing it apart limb by limb. I felt a tinge of sadness when I saw this; the tree may not have been an ally, but I will miss its companionship. It has recently been replaced by a chair. How terrible! I am worried I'll one day be taken out this way and replaced by a chia pet or perhaps an umbrella stand. If the man knew I was trying to befriend the tree, it could have been curtains for this chihuahua as well, except I wear less ornaments and have fewer limbs.

3. A new resident was introduced over the holidays, and I am not happy about it. This came very unexpectedly. After I pooped on the carpet and the man said I was "just asking to be replaced," I thought that maybe the jerk really meant what he said for once. The resident is a feline, a species I know little about, and her name is Matilda. What kind of name is that?! Matilda? Not very hip if you ask me...not like Zoey...yeah, Zoey...hip, young, and cool like the other side of the pillow. Zoey rocks! Anyway, I don't know what to make of the feline. Although I don't trust her, I really like her style. The dumb sharpherd tried his aggressive friendship tactics with her, and she immediately swatted him right in the face! It was awesome! Then again, even though it was great to see her put him in his place, the feline freakin' scares me!

4. I am officially addicted to the Food Network. I had the opportunity to watch many shows on that channel, and I have realized that the food the humans feed me really sucks. No tuna tar-tar, no balsamic reduction, no fancy garnish of any kind. Dry food - you gotta be kidding me! I informed the sharpherd of our dilemma, and we agreed we'd fix our plight by scouring the house for items suited for our sophisticated palets. Our investigations yielded one of the most delicious morsels I have ever tasted, and it was prepared by the mysterious feline, who must have attended some kind of culinary school before being kidnapped and brought here. The feline prepared what appeared to be moist cakes covered in a crusted coating almost like a Baltimore crab cake. The sharpherd and I feasted on many of these morsels. Our discovery really upset the humans, and it seemed that they were trying to horde these cakes for themselves; I'm not exactly sure why because it seemed there were plenty to go around, and the feline smiled at us every time we we devoured the treats. Then the truth was later revealed...the sharpherd and I were feasting upon turds covered in cat litter. You would think this might have upset us, but it really is no problem. We happen to enjoy French cuisine and will continue to eat the tasty cakes.

5. Taking a page out of the feline's book, I have attempted to make my own cakes so that I can market them to a broader audience and realize my new dream of becoming a Food Network personality. The problem is that the man keeps thwarting my dreams by cleaning up my steamy droppings before I have a chance to make culinary magic with them. How does he expect me impress Bobby Flay if I have no ingredients to work with? I just know with a little EVOO and some cilantro I would have a hit on my hands!!! I just know Flay will show up one day to "throw down" with me, and I will have nothing to work with. He'd probably bring Rachael Ray and Paula Dean with him, too. I will have to find a way to freeze some of them so that I have them in stock. I hope freezing them won't blanch the flavor, though. Hmmm, I guess it's a chance I'll have to take. Bring it on, Iron Chef!!!

6. By the way, the man is still evil. In his latest attempt to foil me, he has covered the entire yard with a cold white substance called "snow" that makes it impossible for me to relieve myself properly. The squeaky woman (Pookie) and the girl are in cahoots with him because they continue to lead me into its frigid conditions. Oh, he makes me so mad! I think I am going to make him a big ol' lemon snow cone to eat; that will fix him! Wait a minute, lemon snow cones sound pretty good. Maybe I'll make one for myself instead.

Well everyone, thanks for your patience.
I hope to be more diligent in keeping you posted.

Hang loose.
Z.