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!