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.