Distress Call

I recently realized that although the man often claims I "have it made," he as usual does not know what he is talking about. It has come to my attention that compared to everyone else living in this house, I have next to nothing. No cellular telephone, no vehicular transport, no health insurance, no lap top, no underwear or pants. That really stinks.

My realization came to me the other day after the woman left for work. Usually during that time I like to snuggle up in the walk-in closet with whatever clothing she has left behind, wrapping myself up like a burrito(sans cilantro)and napping the day away. As I strolled in, my eyes almost googled out of my head when I took in the scene before me... NO CLOTHING TO SNUGGLE WITH WHATSOEVER!!!

What was I supposed to do? Where was I supposed to spend my day? I panicked, walked in a circle 4 or 5 times, and sat down on the uncomfortable floor, delirious with grief and not the "good grief" Charlie Brown is always talking about. Something needed to be done, and right away. I instinctively screamed.

I decided to employ the feline in my plot to remedy the situation. I knew she was the only one who could scale the counter and get me the tool I needed to save the day...the telephone. After bargaining with the feline (and getting royally raked over the coals if you ask me), she agreed that she would jump up on the counter and knock the phone down to me. She did this with relative ease, and although I was grateful I realized that the four days of access to my water bowl and my favorite Ace of Base cd was indeed a steep price to pay for such services. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so I just dealt with it.

Now that the phone was on the floor next to me, I was ready to enact my plan of calling the woman and demanding she come home to throw a dirty sweat shirt or towel on the floor in the closet. I decided in advance I'd use my "Zochie" voice so that she would know I was serious and get home lickity-split. In case you did not know, I have formed a second identity known as "Zochie." When I am good, I go by the name of Zoey, a friendly chihuahua many people love to chill with; but if some growling occurs or if a mysterious stain appears on the floor, then I blame "Zochie" my alter ego. Works like a charm. You don't want me to go "Zochie" on your ass!!!

Anyway, it did not matter because I quickly came to learn two unfortunate truths. Number one, I did not know the woman's phone number. Secondly, I had never used a phone before, or any technological device for that matter, except for the time I stepped on the tv controller and accidentally changed the channel to Hannah Montana while the man was watching the World Series; so I was royally stumped and no one was there to guide me through the difficult process.

Then I had an epiphany. The woman once watched a television program called "Hooray Academy" or "Gay Strategy" or something like that. All I know is it was about some hospital (not Dr. John's vet clinic), and people sometimes got the help they needed by dialing 9-1-1. Aha!!! That's what I would do!!!

I would call 9-1-1 and state my emergency as well as some other items of interest I had on my "to do" list:
1. I needed a blanket, sweat shirt, or dirty towel.
2. I needed a pizza or at least the crust of a pizza.
3. My hind quarters could use a good scratching.
4. I needed someone to kill the man.
5. The feline had gotten herself stuck in a cardboard box.
6. Tucker the sharpherd desperately needed a mint; otherwise his stinky breath might have caused me to jump out the window.

I planned out the whole thing in my mind so that I could clearly tell the dispatcher each emergency situation. I also made darn sure she knew that if my demands weren't met, "Zochie" would be overtaking the phone conversation, and boy she did not want that.

All I had to do was dial the numbers...9-1-1. Unfortunately I had no idea what any of these numbers looked like. Foiled again by the public school system.

I spent the entire day lying on the hard carpet with no pizza and an itchy butt, listening to the feline scratching the inside of a box and smelling the sharpherd's halitosis from across the room while the stupid man put the phone back onto the receiver. What a bummer...another day in the life of this chihuahua.

Tomorrow I think "Zochie" will make an early morning appearance.

Till next time,
Zoey...

...or is it "Zochie"????????

Watch your back!

Cinco De Mayo

Happy Cinco De Mayo everyone!

In case you have been misled by some idiotic drunken buffoon who uses this celebration along with St. Patrick's Day, Groundhog Day, Teacher Appreciation Week, Fasnacht Day, or Lassie's birthday to get all boozed up, Cinco De Mayo is not the Mexican Independence Day. No, my friends. Cinco De Mayo is when the proud Mexican government decided not to pay back their high interest debts to the French, and then my Mexican brothers defeated those snooty snail-eaters in battle. This is part of a long history of the French losing wars and being creepy and the Mexicans not paying anybody back. Boy I love my heritage!

Anyway, let me tell you my most recent news. I was eavesdropping under the covers the other night as the people were talking about their usual nonsense and making rude comments about me they think I do not understand. They are right because I really don't understand, but I get an eerie feeling they make fun of me behind my back. Just a feeling.

Eventually a word was mentioned that gave me such a start, my ears popped up and some gas escaped my bowels (this often happens when I get excited or steal a piece of the man's burrito).

The word was...adoption.

My mind was instantly taken back to the day of my adoption, when the people rescued me from the concentration camp in New Jersey. It was the happiest day of my life to that point except maybe for the time some guy dropped a Sun chip on the floor and I found it, but my ensuing battles with the man have tested my resolve and sanity. Sometimes when I look at his stupid face and listen to his goofy comments, I wonder if it was worth it. Then I look at old pictures of how skinny I was, and I realize that life as a stick figure really does suck.

Back to the topic at hand. What I could not figure out is exactly what they were thinking about adopting. They already adopted me, a really sexy chihuahua and first class winner, as well as Matilda the evil feline and that bumbling stooge, Tucker the sharpherd, who still has no idea who Eric Estrada is even after I forced him to watch "Chips" highlights and real estate informercials on youTube with me.

But I digress. My mind continued to flutter with ideas of what they were adopting. The first thing that popped into my mind was another dog, maybe one to replace Tucker since he has really fallen out of favor with the neighbors with all of his barking and alleged Ben Roethlisberger-like solicitation of the bunny rabbits in the yard.

Could it be maybe they were getting another feline to even the odds in the eventual pet war that will go down one of these days?

Hmmmm...maybe they finally decided to adopt the Christmas tree and not just foster him over the holiday season in order to dress him up like a tramp and torture him repeatedly.

Or could it be they were thinking of replacing me???

I have heard the man talking about how cool dachshunds and other strange species of dogs I've never heard of before are, like birkenstocks, philly phanatics, marshmallow peeps, and some breed called a Tony Horton. If he even tries it, then I know someone who will take a keen interest in walking under his feet when he is at the top of the stairs!

Wait...I know; they are talking about a baby!

Now that is okay with me. It will take some getting used to, but I'm game. In fact, you will not find a better babysitter than this chihuahua. I know many lullabyes I can scream to put the baby to sleep. Plus if the baby is hungry, I have ten nipples itchin' for some action. Maybe I can even make some money off of this...

...unless they adopt Tony Horton because he doesn't do dairy.

Ole, Friends!
Up yours, Arizona!

Z. Funk