My Weekend Was Bigger Than Yours, Part Two-nyas

Right now, as I write this, I have a chihuahua next to me, curled into a comma, with her furry head resting in the nook between my thigh and tummy. I just realized, tonight, as I walked her to the library park and back, that she is less of a dog and more of a friend. I realize, yes, that my last statement is popular with the crazy population. Also those people packing stuffed animals in the back windows of their cars. So I would love to deny this, thereby making myself more cool and less crazy, but the dog is less canine and more of a I-swear-she-understands-English dog-body, human-brain hybrid.

I find myself, more and more often, talking to Tanya like she's a person who can respond. More and more often, on our walks, I'll ask her questions -- for instance, when we pass a heap of poop that someone neglected to pick up, I'll ask her what she thinks. She usually takes the widest route around other dogs' poop as possible, which, to me, seems like a sort-of answer. As in, "Dog poop is gross." And the section in my heart (that deals with love alloted to canines) beats with a little faster, because, darn it, I feel the same way.

She licks my face way too much, obsessively and for long minutes, and she takes the high jump to new heights when I walk through the door after even a minute of being parted. She wags her tail so hard, her body ends up changing directions. Sometimes, when she goes to Pet-Smart and I pick her up, the workers are unwilling to let her go, giving her kisses and mounds of gobbledy-goo-goo and tell me that she's their dog now. She's a likeable dog, and it's a bonus that she can doggy-beg for chicken strips.

So it kills me just a little when her quirkiness, manifested in a hatred of cats, other people who aren't Russ and I when Russ and I are around, bikes, skateboards, black (murderer) gloves, loud noises, children younger than 4, senior citizens with canes, men with dreds, men with large piercings, Golden Retrievers, and questionable hand gestures, is what my best friends mostly see when they're around her. I know they understand and I know they are caring, patient people who have nothing against a rogueish chihuahua, but I always feel just a little embarassed that she's my dog. And I start to think, if only I'd had her as a puppy, she wouldn't be this way, if only she was the shiny, happy R.E.M.-like model instead of the scary indie band. Which, of course, she would bark incessantly at, were they in her presence. Probably the shiny, happy models, too. And most likely, Jesus (long hair/sandals) and Buddha (shapely figure) and Barack Obama (big smile).

In spite of this, she's still my dog and I feel the need to defend her honor constantly. It's insanity, this canine-caring stuff, and I partially understand why the mothers of petty criminals maintain, despite all the evidence, that their children are good-hearted people who wouldn't do a thing like this. When you get so many licks to the face, so many waggy smiles, it's hard to accept otherwise.