The Little Dog Who Didn’t Die (the continuing saga of Chico, the chihuahua).
Chico, that shaky-legged, coughing fit of an excuse for a dog, lives.
Friday afternoon, we gave him a bath and then I fed him some bacon, warmed his blanket in the dryer and went back to work. Friday evening we could not find him. Friday night we called him and we beat on things in the living room (to scare him out of hiding) and nothing. We assumed he had crawled under the bookcase and died.
We cried. I consoled. I cried. I felt guilty, for it was my idea to bathe him, my idea to give him bacon (we all know that’s a killer) AND I had left the front door wide open for about an hour. When we couldn’t find him, when he did not come out of hiding, we finally gave up, thinking he is either dead or he’ll come out later. Later came and went. No Chico. My girlfriend cried and cried. Midnight found me out of bed, back in the living room, searching with a flashlight. Where OH where could he be? Nothing.
Saturday morning, 7 AM: I get up to put in a load of laundry. I find Chico standing in front of the washer, staring at the back door. I had two choices: Go tell Lori he was alive or push him outside the door and lock it. I chose the higher path. UGH. I went and told her I had resurrected him and she quit crying. Stupid higher path.
We swapped stories: I told her how (in my head) I had picked out a sunny place on the side of a local lake to bury him, near a dog path, where he would be “warm and get to see lots of girl dogs”. She told me how (in her head) she’d gotten rid of his blankets, threw out his dishes, and took his unopened food back to the store.
I told Chico the next time he hid, he shouldn’t be surprised if we got rid of his stuff. He sneezed and begged for more bacon.