Chihuahua in America: The Story of My Struggle

Distress Call

2010-08-13T13:09:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-05T17:30:00.000-07:00

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

Old Acquaintances and Facebook Adventures

2009-11-28T05:42:00.000-08:00

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

2009-07-23T05:58:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-21T11:12:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-12T16:05:00.001-07:00

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...

2009-03-14T19:56:00.001-07:00

Zoey vs. the Thermometer

HOLY CHIHUA-FRAUD, BATMAN!!!

2009-02-18T15:44:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-08T06:46:00.001-08:00

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

2009-02-03T17:14:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-17T07:43:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-16T17:42:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-01-10T17:40:00.000-08:00

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.

Unplanned Incarceration

2008-12-16T13:12:00.000-08:00

Yo, everyone!

I apologize for not blogging in quite some time, but something has happened. Let's just say I forfeited my one phone call for the opportunity to write you this message. It is a long story, but I will tell it in full with pictures very soon.

If anyone has any soap on a rope and an extra carton of smokes, it would be much appreciated.

Until later.
Z.

The Dangers of Retail

2008-12-08T13:51:00.000-08:00

Okay, you've been patient, so here's the story. It has come to my attention that my Constitutional rights have been violated numerous times under the dictatorship of the man. Everyone in this house has the right to come and go as he or she pleases, including the dullard sharpherd. I, however, am only allowed to go out and about when one of the humans decides to lead me outdoors with a retractable cord attached to a silly pink harness they make me wear. Therefore I am determined to find a way I can experience the same benefits others in the home enjoy. I will be very patient, for right now it is far too cold to go outside without freezing my nipples off, but come Spring things are going to change, man.

Now to my epiphany and the escape plan...

I had spent Saturday watching with fascination this strange ritual of the Mary Kay open house. I have no idea why it is called an open house because every time I attempted my escape, the doors quickly closed. I did some investigations of the strange women who came through the doors, noticing that each one of them handed Pookie a sum of money before leaving. Naturally I concluded that money is the means to escape. I must be an indentured servant, like my great uncle Pablo!

I decided I had to come up with the green to pay my way out, so I looked at my assets. As I told you before, I have stockpiled a vast number of rawhide bones, many of which I stole from Tucker the sharpherd. I also have an extensive wardrobe, but I will need these if I decide to hit the road for any length of time. Other than these things, the only other objects in my possession are some tattered toys from which I have already removed the squeakers, rendering them worthless. Taking all this into account, I made my move.

Selling my bones was my only option. I know what you are saying...she's crazy. She risked her well-being for those bones! Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Taking inventory, I went about selecting a bone I thought would fetch a good sum or at least enough to open the front door. I found it very hard to part with any of them, so I did the only thing I could think of - I decided to sell one of Tucker's bones behind his back. I am so freakin' clever.

While Tucker was busy scratching himself (one of several deranged hobbies he enjoys), I grabbed his rawhide bone and sprinted to the kitchen. There I found an incredible array of Mary Kay displays that made everything look very appealing. I took the bone and positioned it under one of the tables so that it looked like part of the display. It was quite fetching if I do say so myself. The bone was slightly used, but anyone who was going to buy the Mary Kay face crayons was sure to instantly fall in love with the vintage, tasty bone.

I waited patiently to make a sale, but no one seemed to want to bite. I felt that maybe the customers were intimidated by me, sitting next to the bone like a used car salesman, so I left the scene for a few minutes. When I returned, the bone was gone! I looked to Pookie, who I felt probably sold the bone for me in my absence, but she paid me no mind. Someone had stolen my bone! I sniffed around the women's purses to find the perpetrator, but the bone was nowhere to be found. There was only one more explanation...

The man.

I found him upstairs with the sharpherd, who had been banished to the bedroom due to his stench, ill-manners and propensity to run in tight circles like a fool until he decides to hump the legs of strangers. The man had given the bone back to Tucker!

I demanded payment for the bone, but Tucker turned his back to me. Instantly, I confronted the man with a series of short, purposeful barks, but he was too dumb to understand me. Once again the man kept me down like I am a second-class citizen. My dream of the ultimate sale was dashed, as well as my chance for freedom. Grrrrrrrrrrr!!!

I did, however, successfully retrieve the bone itself by using my superior acting skills. I faked a hamstring injury perfectly and was given the bone to ease my pain. Tucker did not seem convinced, and the fact that the bone was transferred into my possession caused him to turn his back to me in disgust. Check out the pic. Sweet.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
Z.

Smell You Later

2008-12-07T17:52:00.000-08:00

I do have a bit of news to report, but I am going to save it for tomorrow. I need to get some facts straight with the sharpherd and the tree before I clue all of you in to what happened today. Let's just say that I have once again been compromised, and the man has officially gone crazy.

I will be sure to give you the full scoop tomorrow. Right now I really have to poop.

Until then...
Z.

Rats! Foiled Again!!!

2008-12-06T11:51:00.000-08:00

I have officially had it with the man. I stayed up all night concocting the perfect plan, and somehow he managed to foil me once again. Fiddlesticks!!! I thought for sure this scheme would work, but I guess I'll have to go back to the drawing board.

Let me give you some insight as to what happened. The man left early this morning for his Saturday breakfast ritual, giving me time to set the wheels in motion for his demise. The door to his office, luckily for me, was left ajar, so I sneaked in undetected. Often when he sits at his computer, probably e-mailing lies about my citizenship status to the government, he listens to music using headphones. I don't know what he listens to exactly, but it is probably something that would make me howl or vomit, or both (usually not at the same time, but I've had my moments). Anyway, my plan was two-fold, and I thought for sure there was no way for him to avoid falling into my trap, for if one facet of the plan failed, the other one was sure to work.

Here was the plan. I strategically dropped a poop on the carpet right next to his headphones. I have noticed through my keen espionage in the past that he never really looks at the floor when grasping for the ear devices, so it was inevitable that he would grab onto the turd instead, perhaps mushing it in his hand and giving me a victorious chuckle and tail wag at the sight of his humiliation. If for some reason he noticed the brown dropping on the floor, the back-up plan was for him to mistake it for a Christmas kiffel or elongated cookie and take a bite out of it. I spent hours learning how to simulate the shapes of these pastries, and I can tell you with certainty that it is not easy.

Either the sharpherd or that devilish tree must have tipped him off because he did not squish it in his fingers, nor did he take a bite. Instead he went running to Pookie, tattling on me as if I was some kind of contemptuous child. Needless to say, I was found out and punished with banishment from the snuggly blankets on the people's bed.

With the blankets now an impossible dream, I was forced to put on the ridiculous Santa suit for warmth so that I did not shiver to death. Compounding the problem, Pookie and the girl decided to have some kind of crayon exhibition today, only these crayons seem to be used exclusively on the humans' faces to make them appear younger. They mentioned something about a woman named Mary Kay, and I am suspicious of this mystery woman already because she has two first names. This means she must be two-faced like the man, who gives me treats only as a means to control me. Whatever the case, in the hopes of seeing this Mary Kay woman, other females have flocked to the house in search of her mysterious facial crayons. I noticed every time a new one appears, the man and sharpherd retreat for the upstairs office. Therefore I must recruit these women, for it seems the man fears them greatly. Maybe I will build an army after all. We will first rid ourselves of the man, then the tree and the sharpherd. Victory will be so sweet.

I will be keeping an eye out for this Mary Kay; I envision her as a pink wizard who might be able to grant me three wishes. If so, I already know what I will wish for:

1. The ultimate disappearance of the man
2. A lifetime supply of rawhide bones
3. A Hannah Montana backpack

Godspeed.
Z.

Close Call

2008-12-05T17:48:00.000-08:00

It is no secret that I love people food, and I am willing to do almost anything to get it. Tonight the people were sitting in front of the tv, watching "Two And a Half Men" and eating Italian food that smelled just heavenly. Unfortunately for me, my nose pointed me toward the man once again, and he sat there taunting me with a calzone bigger than my body and stuffed with pepperoni, meatballs, sausage and three cheeses. I had one of two choices. I could have sat there and appealed to him with my blue steel look (check out my pic - boo yeah), or I could have taken him out once and for all. I would have chosen the latter, but I was unable to cause him to choke on one of the meatballs. I am also sad to report that I did indeed try blue steel, and for the first time ever, I was unsuccessful. The man is simply an enigma.

Like I said, I'll do almost anything for human food, but one thing I will not do is sacrifice my personal dignity. Tucker, however, has none whatsoever. In an attempt to secure some of the human food, the sharpherd, in all his wisdom, decided that sprinting around the living room in a circle like a three-legged, cross-eyed, rabid, retarded dingo on crack was just the thing to impress the man and earn a bite of the calzone. Worried the dim-witted man would fall for this, I attempted to interfere by stationing myself in the middle of the living room. Terrible mistake - I found myself amidst a hurricane of legs and almost became a casualty in the process. Luckily for me, I was able to dive under the coffee table and sneak back upon the couch as Tucker wound down and collapsed to the floor with a thump, trying to regain both his breath and any sense of dignity he had left. I am happy to report that his plan was once again a pathetic failure. Unfortunately for me, however, by that time the calzone had been consumed by the man, and all that was left was Pookie's walnut,pear and gorgonzola salad. First of all, I am lactose intolerant. Secondly, who eats pears and walnuts on salad? Rats. Foiled again.

Well at least I added some bells and whistles to my blog today. Check out my music, chihuahua tv channel, the hangman game, and the super-cool pic of Gary Matthews!

Enjoy, and add a calzone to my Christmas wish list. Pookie keeps telling me that Santa is watching; needless to say, I am totally creeped out.
Z.

Tough to Swallow

2008-12-04T15:51:00.001-08:00

I had a terrible itch today. It was one of those itches that is hard to reach, and once you start scratching it, you just can't stop. Unfortunately for me it was also one of those itches that makes one of your legs spaz out and twitch uncontrollably. Of course this provided more entertainment for the man, who began pointing at me and yelling, "Look at Zoey! What a weirdo!"

That was totally uncalled for. Both Pookie and Tucker the sharpherd decided to take a gander, and I could not just stop because I was in mid-scratch. How embarrassing.

Moving on, the man gave me a peanut butter pretzel today. My first thought was that it was poisoned, but its haunting aroma forced me to eat it. Actually, the pretzel was delicious and I am still alive; but something very creepy happened - truly an evil plot just to irritate me once more. It seems the peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth, and it was impossible to shed its grasp. Instinctively running to the water bowl, I was hoping to wash down the tacky substance and find relief. To my dismay, the only water left in the bowl had been sullied with the sharpherd's disgusting and overwhelming saliva. Gross! My breathing became more difficult, and I thought I was about to pass out. Zoey's end was near.

My only chance of survival was to seek the aid of the tree, who had shared drinks with me before but also tried to kill me through an air strike of Christmas ornaments. Throwing caution to the wind, I drank from the tree's basin and washed down the suffocating yet tasty peanut butter with a few cool gulps. All this was done without interference from the tree. Maybe I can once again recruit the tree to my cause; I may have been too hasty in dismissing it as an ally.

Peanut butter has become yet another weapon in the man's arsenal. I find it irresistable, but its effects on me could be devastating. I guess that is why the dogs in the neighborhood call peanut butter "canine crack." I certainly hope I don't become an addict.

Oooh! My favorite Christmas song just came on: "Dominic the Donkey."

Stay hungry (but don't OD on PB)!
Z.

The Tree and the Man Are in Cahoots!!!

2008-12-03T16:59:00.000-08:00

It is official; the tree has sided with the man.

I have drawn this conclusion based on recent events. This afternoon I noticed the man pouring a large pitcher of icy cold water into the tree's basin, the same basin from which we shared a drink the other night as I tried to initiate conversation with the conifer. I truly thought we could be allies, but I don't see that happening anymore. Just as he has with Tucker the sharpherd, the man continues to assemble an army against me using food and beverage. Drat!!! This foils everything!!! He may be stupid, but the man's tactics are rather effective.

Let me tell you how I learned the tree turned on me. Admiring it closely, I was taken by surprise when the tree shed one of its large ornaments in an attempt to bludgeon me. I was too quick for it, however, and I let out a sharp bark to express my agitation at the tree's act of treason. At that moment, I found myself dodging more falling objects, these made of blown glass, which could have easily shattered and impaled me with schrapnel. I was unharmed but a bit startled, and as I backed away from the tree, eyes googling in dismay and disbelief, I realized that I better watch my back from now on. This tree could indeed be a silent assassin.

I am accumulating enemies as we speak. The man. The tree. The sharpherd. This Santa Claus fellow, whoever he is. Hopefully this blog will reveal some friends who will support me in my struggle.

In other news, I peed all over a small rug today. It felt really good to be in a warm room instead of outside where my nipples instantly harden like icicles. I hate the cold!!! The friendly girl washed the rug before the man had a chance to step on it in his stockinged feet as I had planned. I was angry at first, but I think she did it for my own protection.

As far as the bone wars go, the sharpherd sneaked into my stash and made tracks with two of my bones. Zoey 2, Tucker 2. A draw.

Well, the day was not a total loss. "Pookie" did let me enjoy a sweet potato fry and lick her plate; it was absolutely delicious. I am going to find a way to raid the freezer and take these fries for myself. I am devising a plan to accomplish this, and hopefully it is better than my plan to befriend the tree. We shall see.

I am off to check eBay for potential allies. Wish me luck.

Happy Christmas to you.
Z.

Limbs in Limbo

2008-12-02T12:48:00.001-08:00

I promised all of you that I would tell you the story of when I broke my left-front leg; I like to refer to it as the day I became bionic. It was a dark and stormy night (please disregard the cliche, but I'm a dog, not that Harry Potter-writing chick), and I was hoping to lie down with the kind women and watch some tv. I enjoy watching the reality shows with the dwarf family or that crazy family with the eight kids. Eight kids! I wonder how many nipples that lady has!!! To tell you the truth, I wonder how many nipples I have. I'll have to get back to you on that.

But I digress...back to my story. The younger woman was nowhere to be found, for she has what some of the humans refer to as a "social life." Whatever this means, it does not seem to involve me, so it must not be that great. I decided to look for the other squeaky woman. As I told you in an earlier blog entry, I found out her name is "Pookie." Back then she was only referred to as "Mom," but I don't think she is actually my mom because she is of a different species.

Gosh, I must have ADHD because I can't seem to stay on topic. Maybe that is why the man is trying to destroy me; he is a teacher, so this condition makes me his natural enemy.

Okay, that's it...back to the story. Focus, Zobo, focus.

"Pookie" decided to spend some time with me, which was much appreciated. She likes to pick me up, and I really don't mind it because it gives me a better vantage point so that I can make my plans of conquest. During this time, something absolutely terrifying happened. The sky lit up and there were huge booms that sounded even more deadly than whenTucker eats leftover vegetarian chilli. I have no idea why they let him eat that stuff...beans are truly weapons of mass destruction.

The wind made a perfect impression of me as it howled through the night. Eventually the chihuahua within me took over. I shook and shook. I wriggled and howled. I arched my back and kicked my legs. All I needed was to be held close and told everything would be okay.

That's when she dropped me.

She later said it was my fault for vaulting out of her arms, but I think she was under the mind control of the man, who was trying to take me out once and for all.

I was in shock for a moment, and then the pain seared through my body, causing me to wail at the top of my lungs. It hurt, man! It really hurt!!! I could tell "Pookie" did not know what to do and felt horrible, but that wasn't fixin' my leg anytime soon. I was then taken to a hospital; an Acura was my ambulance for Pete's sake!!!

Once I got there, I endured X-rays and a long surgery where the doctors inserted steel pins into my leg. It was painful, but not as painful as the humiliation that would follow. I was forced to wear a satellite dish around my neck that prevented me from licking myself. I was also fitted with a colorful cast that immobilized my poor leg and did not match any of my outfits. I was totally devastated.

Of course the man had no kind words once he finally showed up. He called me "tripod" and mocked me by asking if we could now get the NFL Network with our new dish. Tucker continued to sniff my butt because I could no longer reach his nose to bite it with the dastardly dish around my neck. I was then forced to spend weeks in a child's playpen with nothing but a sqeaky toy, the likes of which I had already defeated and removed the squeaker. I wallowed in my own sorrows (and at times by choice my own urine) and put on enough pounds so that wearing a bikini was impossible.

Do I forgive "Pookie"? Yes, I do.
Am I stronger from the experience, yes.
Will I use my new bionic leg to its full capabilities? You can bet on it.
Did I have time to plan a major strike against the man?

Let's just say you should stay tuned.

Feliz Navidad, ya'll.
Z.

p.s. The tree is still not speaking. I might have to use more forceful methods.

No luck.

2008-12-01T17:08:00.000-08:00

Hello faithful followers. I don't really have the time tonight to write a total account of my day, but I will keep you up to date on my progress with the tree. After sharing a drink with the evergreen, I could not get one word out of it regardless of my bedroom eyes and other methods of persuasion. I am thinking maybe the tree fears the man as I do and is worried that if it leaks information, it may be punished severely. I have seen the man in the backyard cut up and burn other trees for warmth and to conduct a sick ritual where he and the women folk roast sugary white treats over a flame. What compounds the problem is the fact that they never give me any. Hmmpf.

If the tree won't speak and become an ally, I will have to try to find someone else. My keen ears did pick up on a bit of information that could aid my cause; I learned the name of one of the squeaky women who remains a neutral party in my war with the man. Today the man referred to her as "Pookie" (she must be Asian or something), and maybe if I can set up the man, she will take my side and rid this house of his presence. I strengthened our bond today by responding intuitively to her question about whether I had to "pee pee" outside. I know what this means, and only today did I confirm this to her, which caused her to respond with arm flapping and positive words. I think I'm on to something here...please the woman to defeat the man. I must devise a plan to take advantage of this discovery!

Oh! Speaking of the woman, she owes me tremendously to begin with. How could I forget about the broken leg? Remind me to blog you with the details later, for it is a quite horrifying story of pain, suffering, and betrayal.

Updating the bones wars: Zoey 4, Tucker 0.

Until tomorrow.
Z.

Indoor Trees

2008-11-30T15:25:00.000-08:00

Today started as any other day. Tucker the sharpherd woke me up prematurely with his incessant barking, so yes, I woke up grouchy. From there I decided to get on with my day and my morning ritual, staring down one of the squeaky women in order to coerce her into giving me her bagel. When I do this, my eyes remain fixed on the bagel despite her high-pitched and demeaning taunts, for the bagel and any part of her finger attached to it is my prey. The sharpherd also attempts to secure the bagel, and his methods of persuasion are nothing short of pathetic. He wimpers and makes his "good dog" eyes at the woman, even doing the most juvenile tricks, like sitting (who can't do that if you have a tush), lying down, and giving "skin," which is nothing more than shaking hands. I must admit it is indeed effective, but so below me it makes me want to scream, which I do very often by the way. Does his success make me jealous? Well, let's just say I always manage to win the war of wills with the squeaky woman, and I eat my fair share of bagels. Point, Zoey. Game, set, match. Ha!

Now on to other business. Today the people once again left me in solitary confinement while they went about their pseudo-busy lives. What they do, I don't know, nor do I care. When they returned, I was stunned to see the man, whom I despise (I cannot stress that point enough), bringing a freaking tree into the living room and setting it in the exact spot where I took a leak three and a half months ago. I did not know whether it was just another exercise in stupidity for the fool or if he was placing it there to get back at me, knowing how I love to sniff trees outside the house; perhaps he never cleaned up my urine in the first place and was now tricking me into smelling my own pee by placing the tree in that spot. His fiendish plots to foil me never seem to cease.

I learned later that this ritual seems to be an annual tradition, not another example of the man's idiocy, and it totally intrigues me. In fact the tree and I are kindred spirits in a sense. The people masked the tree in lights and trinkets in an attempt to change its identity, as they take great pleasure in decorating me in various outfits with ridiculous sayings stitched into them, like "Socialite," "Naughty or Nice," or my personal favorite "Local Celebrity." How will anyone ever take me seriously when nonsense like that adorns my ill-fitting clothing? It was even easier to empathize with the tree when they robed me in my newest costume, one made to make me look like a jolly elf or, as the stupid man put it, a miniature "Santa Claus." I don't know who this "Claus" is, but based on his clothing taste and the fact that the comment came from the man, it can't be good. Maybe the poor tree will become an ally in my attempt to get revenge. I will need to learn its language and esuage its pain in order to make that happen. I will have to interrogate the sharpherd, who has prior experience from which I can possibly draw. Perhaps I can tempt him with one of the bones I have filched from his stash buried in the flower bed. The dope.

I will be sure to inform my loyal readers of my progress with the tree. It already allows me to drink from its stand, so I think a kinship is growing. Soon I will be able to convince this tree it should fall on and crush the man. Until then, stay posted and don't let your momma dress you funny.

Out like G.W. in a few weeks.
Z.

Greetings.

2008-11-29T16:49:00.000-08:00

Hola. This is my first posting on this blog, and I hope it is the first of many which will chronicle my rise to power in this fascinating country. My name is Zoey, and I am a chihuahua living in Pennsylvania, as my profile indicates. I am only a little bit more than a year old, but I have been through many interesting experiences in my life. Let me get you up to speed.

I really don't remember much of my early days; most of what I will write takes place after I was rescued from an awful concentration camp in New Jersey. Emaciated and wearing an abominable pink dress that made me look like a tramp, I wallowed in sorry amongst a slew of other inmates until my captors were deceived by my new caretakers. I was whisked away from that house of squalor to my new digs in Pennsylvania, where I instantly rose from also-ran to princess. There I commanded everyone's attention, especially that of the two house females, who speak to me in squeaky voices that mockingly undermine my supreme intelligence; even so, for some reason their constant banter causes my tail to wag uncontrollably. I see them as my allies in my aim to one day figure out my identity and role in this cruel and confusing world. It seems I have fooled them into believing I am an innocent and playful canine, for my good looks and undeniable appeal make me absolutely irresistible. Hey, it's not bragging if it's the truth.

There are two major obstacles in my way, however. The man who lives here does not seem to fall for my guise. He condescendingly calls me an array of strange names, claiming that I do not even look like a dog. He says I look like a deer fetus, rat, bat, giraffe (Yeah, buddy; like I can eat leaves off the freakin' trees at my height!), and my personal favorite, a goat-snake, which I guess is some mythical creature he dreamed up that is part goat and part python. What a jerk! He must be racist against us Mexicans. I'm all dog, buddy, so you can just bug off!!! I enjoy barking and growling at him, and man does he ever get angry when I strategically drop a poop on the carpet. One day I hope to place one where he will step in it and carry my angst with him everywhere!

The other roadblock is my goofball of a "brother," Tucker. Unlike myself, a purebred, blue-blooded hound, Tucker is a mere mongrel, part shepherd and part sharpei; therefore I refer to him as the "sharpherd." He seems to be an ally of the man, and I think this mind control is attained through the use of food. In this respect, Tucker is a hapless fool; a brute whose only ambitions are to eat, sleep, poop, bark at the mailman and make a total fool of himself. Check out the ridiculous pictures of him on this blog.

There is one thing we share, however...our love of rawhide bones. With a limited supply available, it is not hyperbole when I say I am willing to go to war over these bones. The man buys them, so it is extra satisfying to steal them for myself. My ambition is to control the inventory of bones exclusively, stockpiling them to use to my advantage at a later date.

I have told you the basics of who I am and my condition. In future postings I will tell you of my adventures with the kind, squeaky women, the idiocy of Tucker the doltish sharpherd, the status of the bone wars, my struggles against the man, and other encounters I have. Again, if you are a loyal reader of my blog, I will be sure to reward you when I control the world. Until then, shake with the pride of a chihuahua.

Peace, hombre.
Z.