Of Maple Trees and Foxes' Tails

The Brackenridge Belles didn’t walk in the park the Monday of Thanksgiving week. Which is A.O.K., given that Chica and I had the walk of our lives that Friday.

We spent the holiday in the country with our master and mistress and their two sons. William and his wife, Mariana, have two small children; Maverick has two big dogs. All of us savored the organic, never-frozen bird that Maverick bought, brined and baked for family and friends. Among them was one of the Belles, Pat Semmes, whose husband was in Europe. I really liked her dog, J. D., but for some reason Chica took an instant dislike to him and drove us crazy barking.

The next morning we drove up to Utopia, about half an hour from Tarpley, to see the maples in full color at Lost Maples State Natural Area. The nice thing is that us dogs are welcome there, as long as we are on leashes. And believe me that is a comfort when a matched pair of Dobermans like the ones we saw comes your way.

At first, we strolled along the short path in the canyon where most of the maples stand. Then, Maverick, his dogs, and Lewis and Mary decided to take what they believed to be a slightly longer loop. Six miles later, we staggered back down from the top of the mountain in a rising wind. Amazingly none of us slipped on the treacherous trail. But make no mistake: we were pooped.

In fact, we were barely in better shape than the dead fox Mary picked up by the side of the road to show everyone. Unfortunately she learned from a taxidermist that since it’s not winter coat time, the hide isn’t worth tanning. It was a beautiful animal nonetheless, roughly my size and coloration but with a far fuzzier tail.

Another Bridge Across

It was perfect walking weather on Monday, not too hot not too cold. Perhaps that’s why the Brackenridge Belles broke their record by more than half a mile. Mary Lil’s pedometer noted that there were 6,481 steps taken, totaling 2.38 miles. Of course the steps were human ones. Who knows how many Chica and I took, considering both the length and number of legs we have?

Where did we go to cover so much territory? Starting at the Zoo we crossed the San Antonio River and headed to the Frog Bridge on Mulberry. New member Sally Buchanan informed us there’s another bridge crossing the Catalpa-Pershing ditch, decorated by the same artist, Diana Kersey. It's near the Brackenridge Park Golf Course headquarters, which we learned has a mini-museum featuring luminaries who have played on the course. I say "we" because they were gracious enough to let us pups in.

While the frog bridge has ceramic plaques in shades of green celebrating their life cycle, the golf course bridge’s plaques celebrate the game. A profile of a golfer, a portrait of the course’s designer, and an image of a little dog named Queenie are depicted in shades of orange. (Chica and I liked the look of Queenie and wondered if she had been a golfer’s mascot.) There’s also a portrait of philanthropist George Brackenridge. The whimsical bridge joins the list of San Antonio’s hidden jewels.

The five of us made our way back to the zoo along the periphery of the golf course and an unimproved stretch of the river. My mistress begged Sally, who was just reelected to the San Antonio River Authority, to make sure no one “improves” that section of the river, as its primeval aspect harks back to before there was a Brackenridge Park. Or Brackenridge Belles and Bitches for that matter.

From Politicians to Pedometers

On Monday, four belles and two bitches reveled in autumn air as crisp as an apple as they walked for an hour in Brackenridge Park. Sally Buchanan, who lives near the Park, joined us for the first time. It was election day and she was on the ballot for the San Antonio River Authority board. That night, we learned she had won in a landslide.

Another office holder who joined us was Susan Gragg, mayor of Olmos Park. Chica and I had been missing her and were happy to see her again since she is a confirmed dog lover, as evidenced by the dog statues in front of her house that she dresses up seasonally.

Mary Lil Chappell clocked us on her pedometer. Our route from the Zoo to the Sunken Garden, up to Alpine Drive, down past the Sunken Garden Theater and back to the Zoo was 1.6 miles. That's a bit less than the 1.8 we walked one week, but it gave us dogs a smidgen more time to savor the riot of scents that abound in the Park. Can’t wait for Monday to roll around again so we can show off the new fleece sweaters Mary bought us. Girlie girls that we are, we LOVE new clothes.

Calorie Counting. Not.

Today, three Brackenridge Belles and two bitches walked through the park and the adjacent River Road neighborhood. The weather was perfect, and although the ladies didn’t really give us dogs much time for sniffing, Chica and I adored the outing anyway.

Ann clocked 3,457 steps taken in an hour’s time, equaling 1.534 miles. It was the first time she had used a pedometer app on her iPhone and she didn’t know to turn it off while the ladies savored some luscious almond croissants from the Olmos Park Bistro afterward. Hence the average mph came to a puny 1.6. I'm sure the calorie intake (not by us as the ladies shared nary a crumb with the canines) surely was way more than the calories walked off.

But who's counting? When Mary Lil mentioned the croissants’ richness at the Olmos Park bakery where she bought them, they came back with “but almonds are so good for you.” Just wish they'd said almonds were good for dogs, too.

Brackenridge Belles and Bitches

Today the Brackenridge Broads and Bitches got a new name. And a new walker. At Ann's suggestion, “Broads” became “Belles,” which is more fitting given that the new walker, Pam, is a generation younger. Due to Sunday morning's heavy rain, they weren’t able to enter the River Road neighborhood via a low water crossing. Instead they checked out Red McCombs’ weapons collection in the lobby of his nearby building. I would tell you a bit about it, but the guard told my mistress that dogs weren’t allowed. I say that’s a bitch. Being one, I should know.

Brackenridge Broads and Bitches

On Monday, the Walkie Talkies took their third weekly stroll through Brackenridge Park, checking out the construction at the Witte Museum along the way. Since they’ve decided to move their meeting place from Olmos Park to Brackenridge Park, they discussed renaming themselves while they walked the 2.8 miles they logged that day. From now on they are to be called... ta da…. “the Brackenridge Broads.”

Mary had suggested “Brackenridge Beauties,” but as all of the women in question are of a certain age, Ann suggested “broads” was more appropriate. (If it had been up to me and Chica we might have gone for something like “Brackenridge Broads and Bitches,” but we weren’t asked.)

Back home, we recovered awhile on our mistresses’ bed and then went out in the back yard to watch the Monarch butterflies, who were savoring lantana and butterfly weed blooms en route to their winter home in Mexico.

Speaking of food, Mary has started cooking a mixture of hamburger, brown rice and vegetables for us. It's soooo much better than the dry dog food we'd been getting. Hope she keeps it up. We love it!

Brackenridge Park's the Place

On Monday the Walkie Talkies did Brackenridge Park again. Four ladies and two dogs struck out for what my mistress calls the “frog bridge.” What could have been a boring concrete span over a drainage ditch is instead an eye catcher, thanks to a series of ceramic plaques. Created by artist Diana Kersey, they depict the life cycle of frogs, starting with courtship. Chica and I liked that one set of plaques is for people above and another is for the frogs below.

Bad Habits

Though there have been no more hawk sightings in our yard, Mary continues to dress us dogs in sundresses as a deterrent. Jimmie McMullan, a vet with a wicked sense of humor, has written in: "I hope the dresses aren't the sexy, skimpy types. I think they should wear habits. Even Chickenhawks will be afraid of accosting God's bitches."

Walking on the Wild Side

Now that fall is (barely) in the air, my mistress’ walking group has started up again. Because several members had Wednesday conflicts, they have moved the day to Monday. Four ladies trekked through Brackenridge Park today, logging 1.83 miles and working off 125 calories in an hour’s time. The stats are thanks to Mary Lil Chappell, who whose odometer clocked our steps through the Sunken Garden and back to the zoo via the skyline walk above the Gardens.

I must say it was a far more civilized walk than one my doggie friends Chigurh and Sir Walter took at our country place last weekend. In fact, had Chica and I joined them and their master, Maverick, on that walk I probably wouldn’t be writing this entry.

It seems that a coyote followed them early one morning along the rocky Hondo Creek bed. Maverick, who is Mary’s younger son, said it stayed about 10 feet behind them all the way, barking in a high-pitched voice. Fortunately, Chigurh and Sir Walter-- Maverick’s newly adopted rescue lab--are large enough that the coyote never ventured closer. But, desperate as it was due to the drought, I have no doubt it would have nabbed one or both of us little dogs straightaway.

In the course of the walk, Maverick found the skeleton of what might be a ring tailed cat and Sir Walter found a canine skull of some sort. Both animals probably starved, which may be the fate of the barking coyote.

Perhaps it was the scent of coyotes that put me on edge, but for some reason I became really snappy that night. And when Mary reached for me to take off my harness at bedtime I lunged at her, giving her a black eye. She was so concerned about my behavior that she called the vet when they got back to town. Dr. Kothmann suggested it could be that my night vision is not good, that the sudden movement from above alarmed me, or, perhaps it was a form of PTSD, stemming from the time when I was mauled by a neighborhood stray.

Who knows why dogs do things? People go to shrinks to find out why they do the things they do and still don’t always know why. So I’m not going to try to guess what happened to me that night. Mary is more careful with me now and I’m hoping never to go Cujo again. If I do, I fear she might take me for a walk with the coyotes in the country.

Cooper's Hawk it is

This just in: It looks like we may have a positive identification on the hawk that’s hanging around our yard. Wildlife expert Patty Leslie contacted bird experts Tom and Patsy Inglet, who sent a photo almost identical to one my mistress took. It’s of a Cooper’s Hawk.

Mary researched Cooper’s Hawks on the internet and found that their diet consists of small birds and mammals. But how small? Generally, it said, they will eat squirrels and mice. But, it noted ominously, “mammalian prey can be as small as mice and as large as hares.” And, they are “deadly accurate in backyards.” Eeek!!

Dressing fit not to be Killed

My mistress always said she would never be one of “those” folks. By that she meant those icky people who dress up their dogs. But then came the hawk. In the last week, she and my master have seen a brown, striped-tailed raptor three times, hanging around the birdbaths in the front and back yards. My guess is it was waiting for an easy meal coming for a drink.

Birder friends have suggested it could be a Cooper’s or sharp-shinned hawk. More likely though, it’s a red-shouldered hawk, which are known to nest in the large estate behind our house. Whatever is is, it has a fierce visage and scary looking talons.

So the next thing you knew Mary went on the internet to see how Chica and I can safely go outdoors. She found someone who said clothing will fool hawks into not recognizing a tasty Chihuahua tidbit. (Sadly the person forgot one day to dress her dog and the hawk took it.) So now, in the three-digit degree heat, Chica and I are sporting sundresses.

It’s kind of embarrassing, I admit. But on the off chance that the hawk has a hankering for Mexican food I’m glad we are dressed fit not to be killed.

Mo's no mo

Well it had to happen. But as inevitable as the demise of the big fish was, the end still came as a shock. Mary’s younger son, Maverick, first discovered the foot-and-a-half long creature in Williams Creek about a year ago, and we checked on it regularly. The fish hung out under the water plants in a three-foot-wide, two-foot-deep trench that ran no longer than six feet. Every other fish in the creek was the size of a minnow, so he made quite an impression.

We figured the big one must have been washed down from a dammed-up lake upstream. My owners were careful whom they showed it to. I never mentioned it in this blog for fear of revealing its location. But, given its cramped habitat, we knew it was just a matter of time.

An out-of-town cousin whom we showed it to named it “Mo.” Lately, the same cousin was in town and asked after Mo. My mistress said we hadn’t seen him or her lately and that we were concerned because the drought had dried up the creek. The trenches still had water, but it was stagnant and warm. Nonetheless, we weren’t terribly worried since Mo had survived so long in less-than-optimal conditions.

On Sunday we drove up to the country on yet another triple-digit day. As we crossed the creek bed on our way out, my master and mistress and Chica and I got out of the car to check on Mo. Not ten steps out of the car, we encountered its skeleton on the dry creek bed, picked clean. Further up, we noticed two large great blue heron-size footprints next to the trench.

Mary was pretty sad but when she told her older son, William, he replied, “circle of life.” Another friend noted, “at least someone got a good meal out of it.” Both true, but to us Mo was more than just a fish. He was an example of survival against all odds. And his skeleton will be on display at the house as a memento mori.

Putting things into Perspective

FINALLY, after 13 days of confinement, Chica and I have been sprung from the vet’s. We were left to languish in his wire cages because our master and mistress took a trip to New York and Canada. And believe you me, it was no picnic for us dogs.

Not only were we denied the table treats we get at home, we didn’t get our daily walk in the ’hood. When Mary and Lewis finally sprung us last Monday, we were both considerably thinner. And the devil of it is, Mary likes the way we look and is limiting us to what they gave us at Dr. Kothmann’s: a cup of dry food each per day. At least, however, she has been walking us twice a day, due no doubt to her feeling of guilt for having abandoned us for so long.

So what were they doing that justified leaving us in a virtual jail? Attending a celebration of the 200th year of the Fisher Homestead, Lewis’ ancestral home in Fishers, N.Y., and a week later, attending a family wedding in Syracuse. In between the family events, they put in 2,000 miles driving around the Gaspe Peninsula in the province of Quebec.

Now neither my mistress nor my master speak French, but they lost no time picking up words such as homard, meaning lobster. They savored homard more than once, along with cod and another local favorite, sugar pie. Sometimes they stopped at little open air stands to eat sandwiches and honest-to-God made-from-scratch French fries, sprinkled as the locals do with white vinegar. (Lewis never took to the quebequois preference for vinegar and stuck to ketchup; Mary, on the other hand went native.)

The high point of the trip was in Perce, a town at the tip of the peninsula beyond the mouth of the St Lawrence River. The picturesque community has two claims to fame: the Perce Rock and the gannet rookery. The rock has a surreal aspect, standing nearly 300 feet high just offshore. People can walk to it in low tide, but we when they were there the water was deep enough for large boats to circle it.

Perce’s other claim to fame requires a half hour’s boat ride and one-hour hike across Bonaventure Island. The nesting site of hundreds upon hundreds of gannets is an astonishing sight—and sound. The large white birds with funky green-lined feet are beyond noisy as they go about their day building nests, mating, sitting on eggs, flying out and back for food, greeting their returning mates, feeding young and fighting for territory. Observers within touching distance witness their every move.

On their way back from Perce, Mary and Lewis passed on taking a rubber dingy out to hunt whales in the Saguenay River for three hours and instead visited a foie gras farm. There they saw ducks slated to be stuffed so as to enlarge their livers. The owner described a process in which she used a machine to send dried corn kernels directly into the ducks’ stomachs. The machine has a Dr. Seussian appearance, but with a decidedly sinister aspect.

I must say that the idea of being force fed even if it is something to my liking is repugnant. So I’m going to quit complaining about getting a mere cup of food per day and give thanks that Chica and I aren't having ten times that amount jammed down our throats twice a day. It's all a matter of perspective.

Fourth of July Fun

Last Fourth of July, my mistress dressed me in red, white and blue for the Terrell Hills parade. It was kind of a relief this year when she and my master decided not to doll me and Chica up and instead to drive up to our country place. It was hot as Hades, but we loved the novelty of running up and down the dry Hondo Creek bed.

Chica—who is as fast as greased lightning—more than met her match when she came nowhere near catching her first jackrabbit. What she would have done with it is anybody’s guess as it stood way taller than she, not even counting the ears. I didn’t bother to make chase, instead savoring country smells (though the scent of coyote made me nervous enough to stick close to Mary at dusk).

Mary was elated to spot yet another wildflower she hadn’t photographed for the book she is compiling with her granddaughter. Called buttonbush, it looks like a spiky white ball.

After it got dark we enjoyed a dark sky spangled with an explosion of stars more spectacular than a fireworks display. In the past, there have been plenty of fireworks lighting the sky, but this year they were banned. Which suited me and Chica fine as frankly, the sounds and smells of gunpowder offend our canine ears and noses.

Dog Days of Summer--Yuk!

Why do humans use the expression “dog days of summer”? Do they think we like it any more than they do? For weeks, Chica and I have been pent up inside, thanks to heat that has hovered at the 100 degree mark. For the past two nights, we have had no walk at all, since it never cooled off. It was kind of surreal being on the front porch and having no one to bark at; there were simply no passersby.

Things weren’t much better when we went to the country over the weekend. Hondo creek is no longer a creek; it’s a creek bed. Fortunately there was a hint of a breeze at night which, helped by ceiling fans, saved the night. The good news is, my master and mistress are getting an attic fan. So hopefully, it will be more tolerable if they decide to go back upcountry anytime soon.

It’s a good thing Mary started her wildflower photography project last year as now there's hardly anything in bloom, thanks to the drought. But on our way back to town her son Maverick spotted a devil’s bouquet blooming by the side of the road. It’s a spectacular flower and the photo she took will be a nice addition to the Texas wildflower book she and granddaughter Christina are compiling. Given the paucity of blooms, it was a true "dog days of summer" treat.

Meeting of the Minds

Since Chica joined our household, I’ve had less time for deep thoughts. It’s about all I can do to keep up with her puppy antics, which include playing tug of war with my squeaky fox toy, pretending to fight, and slavishly following our mistress about the house and yard (I had outgrown that, having learned that she isn’t about to disappear, but Chica won’t let Mary out of her sight.)

If I were to return to my philosophical musings, I might begin with a recent program on National Public Radio where some English chap came on the air to discuss his new book on the inner workings of dogs’ minds.

Now mind you (pardon the expression) man has been trying to look into the minds of beasts since time out of (pardon again) mind. Dogs’ minds in particular. Until recently the theory of dominance has prevailed. Now comes this new theory that if, for example you let your dog sleep in your bed it won’t make him feel like he is the dominant one in the relationship. Well duh. Of course we know humans are in the driver’s seat, if for no other reason than they are the ones who feed us.

My question is what goes on in the minds of humans? Why, for example, does my mistress persist in trying to train Chica to do her business outside, when it is perfectly obvious that Chica will always go wherever she happens to be when the urge strikes. Two vets have told her that if a pup isn’t trained after three months (Chica is nine) it’s probably not going to happen. Yet Mary persists. Apparently the concept of hope looms larger in the human than the canine mind.

I could also ask why my master and mistress took us to Tarpley this weekend in the 90 degree plus weather. It was absolutely beastly and the creeks are down to a trickle. We took an early evening walk but even then we had our tongues hanging out. Meanwhile, Mary’s walking group has disbanded for the summer due to the heat. Hopefully they will regroup in fall and walk weekly until it gets too cold. These ladies are fair weather walkers for sure. And I must admit that I am of one mind with them on that.

Of Play and Plovers

My, how time does fly. It’s been roughly a month since I last wrote. And if, as they say, a dog year equal seven human ones, that means it’s been more than half a year. For me, though it has gone by in a flash. That’s because I’m having so much fun with Chica.

Before she came I used to lie under the covers all morning before rising, eating and going back to bed. I was just sleeping my life away. Now I’m up as soon as my mistress gets out of bed, usually around 7:30. Chica is still in that stage where she can’t bear to have Mary out of her sight, so she follows Mary. And I follow Chica.

Mary puts us outside immediately, since she is trying to train Chica to do her business there. The housetraining regimen has not been altogether successful. I am of course an excellent role model in this respect, but sometimes Chica blows it indoors. I do hope she learns. Two vets have told Mary that since Chica is more than three months old, it may not be possible to train her. One of them added, “Aren’t you glad she weighs only five pounds?” This is cold comfort, however when one steps on a nasty in the night.

We have continued to go to the country on weekends despite the drought and worsening heat. Last week we saw a clutch of plover eggs in a little depression next to Hondo Creek. Also called killdeer because that’s what their call sounds like (to a human anyway), the lazy things lay their eggs directly on the ground. We saw a killdeer pretending to have a broken wing and, on to their strategem, we didn’t let her lead us away. Instead we searched the immediate area and lo! there they were, all splotchy on top so as to blend in.

The creek below was hardly flowing and one of the tanks at the back of the place has completely dried up, but if the killdeer figure there’s a future for their fledglings then I feel like surely the rains will come. They must.

Fiesta, Flowers and Friendship

What a difference a year makes. This time last year I was making celebrity appearances all over town as a member of the Humane Society’s Rey Fido court. As a duchess I got to wear a fine velvet cape trimmed in (fake) ermine at the doggie coronation.

This Fiesta Week I had fun hanging around home with my young companion, Chica. Between mock battles waged throughout the house, we like to rest up on a huge dog bed passed down to us from Chigurh, my mistress’ son’s Labrador retriever.

As long as the coolish weather holds out, we will be going to the country on weekends. Whenever we go, Mary takes photos of wildflowers. She and granddaughter Christina--who stays at our house every day after school--identified 64 varieties last year. This spring, they have already added a dozen more. After they identify a flower, Christina prints the name to accompany photos pasted in a book they are making.

A recent trophy Mary and Christina are thrilled about is scarlet leather flower, which only grows in a handful of counties in Texas and nowhere else. Another rarity they identified is smoke tree, whose bloom resembles its name. Though not uncommon, one of the most dramatic flowers they added this year is antelope horn.

On a personal note, today Dr. Kothmann removed the stitches from Chica’s abdominal incision. She will never be a mother now, but hopefully she will someday meet a dog that becomes as much a daughter to her as she is to me.

Fountain hit. Again.

There was a little excitement last Wednesday when one of the walkers, Olmos Park Mayor Susan Gragg, received a call just as we set off. It seems that someone had run into the fountain. Again.

The Spanish style fountain, which sits in the center of a roundabout on the town’s business district, has been the target of drunk drivers ever since it’s installation. Of course the ladies wanted to see the damage, so that determined the route of our walk.

When we got there, several policemen were inspecting the damage. A bollard that protects it was sheared off, but the fountain itself was intact. Later, we heard on the local TV news that the City of Olmos Park is offering a $1,000 reward for information leading to identification of the driver.

Who knows what excitement awaits the Wednesday Walkie Talkies—and Barkies—this week?

Romping in Town and Country

Ever since Chica came into our lives I’ve lost track of time, what with her wanting to play all the time. It’s made for a never-ending workout, leaving little or no time for contemplation. Or blogging.

Our routine is to sleep late in the morning and have a late breakfast (I really do like Chica’s puppy food, which tastes SO much better than the ever-so-dry Lean Dog Formula pellets my mistress gets for me at Whole Foods.) Then we romp about the house off an on all day until time for our walk.

After dinner it’s a romp-and-play redux until bedtime. Someone who doesn’t know dogs might figure we are fighting for real, especially since Chica whines when I pretend to bite her. We take our mock fights up the road every weekend to the ranch near Tarpley. The weather has been perfect for long walks along the creeks, but we always reserve energy for roughhousing afterwards.

Outdoors our master and mistress like sitting by the new fire pit. But since you can hear coyotes calling at night and there’s a large underground den not too far off, we dogs prefer to be inside after dark. I’ve overheard my mistress asking folks whether they think badgers or coyotes dug the underground den, which has both a front and a back entrance. Either way is scary for size-challenged Chihuahuas.

Back in town, we are walking weekly with the Wednesday Walkie Talkies, now that the weather is nice. Today we had a treat when WWT Mary Lil invited everyone to her condo for coffee afterward. While the ladies were sipping out of elegant Belleek cups, we were lapping water from a fancy talavera bowl. Only the best for the WWTs—and their doggies.

On the Road Again

From last Wednesday to this, the weather went full throttle from frigid to balmy. So today, after weeks of wimpiness on the part of the walkers, I got to hit the streets of Olmos Park with six WWTs. Little Chica came, too, and because my mistress had her hands full with the pup, Ann McMullan walked me. Now Mary doesn’t put up with unplanned stops, but I played Ann, making her think the stops I made were necessary. (Sure hope she walks me again next week.)

Up to now I have been the object of everyone’s attention, but today I had to endure the ladies’ ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the little one. Even I have to admit she is a cutie, though. And I must say I admired her moxie in befriending Pat Semmes’ doggie, J.D., who is more than 10 times her size.

Over the weekend we took Chica to the country for the first time and she did rather well. The only time I heard her whimper was when she got a sticker in her foot. She didn’t seem to mind stepping into the water when we traversed the creek, which impressed me as I avoided that for years. And she managed to keep up with both me and Chigurgh, a lab whose head alone is several times larger than Chica.

News flash: Today they selected a Scottish deerhound as best in show at the prestigious Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show in Madison Square Garden. This time last year, my dog cousin, Sadie (whose owner is my mistress’ first cousin) won. Now Sadie is expecting. Sonograms show that she is carrying four puppies. What a difference a year makes.

Trixie's Sister Settles in

It’s been almost two weeks since my mistress sprung a Chihuahua puppy on me and my master. Neither of us was thrilled, but I must say it hasn’t been half bad.

Of course Chica, as she has been named, can be a nuisance. She constantly wants to play, even when I’m wanting to rest. It goes on day and night. And at bedtime, when we both burrow under my mistress’ covers Mary has to put the puppy on her other side or she will continue to jump on me, spoiling for a mock fight.

Despite all this, it’s fun to watch the little thing making my fox toy squeak over and over, learning to walk with a leash, and cuddling with Christina, my master and mistress’ five-year-old granddaughter-- who lugs her about the house like a rag doll. (I’d be jealous but do I want that? Noooooo.)

Believe it or not, the little thing is teaching me some things. They say you can’t teach and old dog new tricks, but maybe that just means if humans are the teacher. Because I’ve learned to eat broccoli—something I’ve always refused—thanks to Chica. She eats it ravenously, so I thought I’d give it a try and you know, it’s not bad if it’s buttered. Since my mistress read lately that it’s healthy for dogs’ heart health, I expect we will be eating a lot of it from now on.

We’ve been having unseasonably cold weather for several days now, which has curtailed our daily walk. This morning, for the first time in several years, there was snow on the ground. I tried to go outside, but twenty-degree weather isn’t for this short-haired northern Mexican-bred dog. Nor is it for the puppy.

But with spring in the offing I look forward to walking with her and my master and mistress soon. Now we’re a family of four--and I’m beginning to like that fact.

Separating the Bitches in Bed

Well the ladies wimped out again this week, due to a windy, twenty-degree day. So instead of walking I hung around the house with Chica--who wants to play 24/7.

As bureaucratic government writer might put it, Chica has no “terminal facilities” when it comes to play, and the only way I can get her to stop ragging me is to bite her ear. Of course then she howls and tries to get me in trouble with my mistress. But fortunately, Mary seems to get it and instead of fussing at me, simply carries the puppy off.

Speaking of my mistress, she is over the moon about having met Ariana Huffington at a World Affairs Council awards ceremony where Huffington spoke. Having been burned by not having a camera with her when she met Salmon Rushdie at a Texas Book Festival Gala in Austin several years ago, Mary always carries a camera in her purse. And thanks to Lewis, she got her photo taken Wednesday night with the woman who just sold her eponymous publication for mucho millions.

Among Huffington’s observations were that one should never sleep near their electronic devices, as research shows that merely looking at an email or text message will disrupt sleep patterns. Well there’s something else that does the same thing: a Chihuahua puppy.

At bedtime Mary has to act as mediator since Chica wants to play with me under the covers. The trick is to hold the puppy down on the other side of the bed until she settles down and sleeps. All I have to say is I’m glad Mary didn’t adopt both puppies that were offered her. Else wise I’d get neither a wink of sleep nor a moment of repose.

Another Chihuahua on the Scene

Well after being the princess of the house for five years, something happened today to rock my world: my mistress acquired another Chihuahua.

It all happened on our daily walk around the block. The weather was nice so we took a longer route past a house that’s been on sale for a while. Turns out new owners had just arrived with two tiny Chihuahua puppies. And the next thing you knew they were offering them to Mary.

Well at least she had the good sense to take only one of the two, over my master’s strong objections. But wouldn’t you know it, as soon as we got back to the house the little minx began courting Lewis, draping her tiny self all over him. By the end of the evening, he was smitten.

But it’s not all bad. First, I’m still being treated in the royal manner I’m accustomed to (even though she's pedigreed). Second, now there’s someone half my size to lord it over. And third, it is kind of an entertainer being around a young ‘un. So far so good...

Lighting the Fire

Well I’ve missed walking with the Wednesday group two weeks running. Last week my mistress forgot to take me. Can you imagine? Then today she wimped out and didn’t go due to the cold. As it turned out, all but one stalwart skipped.

Fortunately, I’ve had plenty of good walks in at our country place. Weekend before last, I walked down Williams Creek with my mistress’ grandchildren. Last weekend I walked up Williams Creek with my big doggie buddies, Chigurh and Townes.

The next day, we made our way through a field where the grass was so high I had to jump along like an impala to see where I was going. (Being small can be a drag in situations like that, but mostly it’s an advantage given that humans always make over me as if I were a puppy.)

The high point for me was the après walk time, when I got to watch my mistress’ son, Maverick, light the first fire in our brand new fireplace. It didn’t get hot enough for me to lie in front of it, but we found later that that was because the damper (who knew they were adjustable?) was set so that much of the heat went up the chimney.

I’m really looking forward to lying in front of it next time, when it puts out more heat. After walking, of course.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

My master was confounded when I refused to walk in the cold on Monday. As soon as we stepped out the door I simply turned back into the house. Then my mistress did virtually the same thing today, when she and her fellow Wednesday Walkie Talkies decided not to hit the streets on the coldest day of winter (so far).

Now I'm sure Vermonters would scoff at folks who won't go out on mid-20-degree days, but this is sunny San Antonio, Texas. As one of the WWTs, Susan Gragg, put it: "I guess we're fair weather friends." Amen, sisters.

Good Eats, Good Prognostication

I must say I loved every minute of the holidays. That’s because I had the best table scraps ever. On both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day there was the obligatory turkey. Then, on New Year’s Eve, my master and mistress went up to their Hill Country place, Los Piquines, to celebrate with champagne and a fancy four-course meal at Mac and Ernie’s Roadside Cafe with son Maverick and another couple.

I had to stay back at the house while they feasted, but when they came back I got some luscious leftover filet mignon with lobster béarnaise sauce, thanks to my good buddy Ann McMullan. The next morning, everyone had an extended walk up both creeks and through the fields. It was a cold, clear day—glorious both for man and beast.

It was a propitious beginning for the new year and my intuition tells me 2011 is going to be a great one. As my vet likes to say, “Trixie’s Momma didn’t raise a dumb dog.” That being the case, I hope everyone--both men, women and beasts--will take my positive prognostication to heart and make it a Happy, Happy New Year.

Next week the Wednesday Walkie Talkies will resume their weekly walks and I'm sure I'll have more news to relate. Until then be happy.