Last year I adopted a dog, or rather – a dog adopted me. That’s what people say, and it sounds all cute, but people who say things like “We didn’t find him, he found us!” happened to adopt a baller German Shepard mix that came toilet trained and had the vocabulary and diction of Edgar Allen Poe. That wasn’t my reality. My reality is that I crossed paths with a Chihuahua Mix named “Nara,” and my existence was never allowed to be the same again.
When I first met Nara, her comically ginormous eyes immediately widened and she began to wiggle her butt with what could best be described as “vigor.” At first I thought she was just trying to prove that even though she was small she could still have dumps like a truck, but then I realized she was mere seconds away from attempting to leap into my arms. My Mama Bear instincts immediately clicked in, proving I do in fact have a soul capable of procreation, and I caught her.
She really gave about a rat’s ass about any other human, but she thought I was the best thing next to sliced bread. I love anyone or thing that inflates my confidence so we took easily to one another. After almost a month of watching her get very not adopted, I knew what I had to do. I signed the papers and starting calling her “Nora” instead of “Nara” because “Nara” just made me feel pretentious and weird every time I said it and it really didn’t roll off the tongue well.
The only dog I had ever even had was a beautiful mountain dog who was regal as all shit. She went hiking and angels sang as the sun beamed down upon her face, she was more attractive than me, and obviously in way better shape. With Nora? I may as well have given the following description at the humane society: “Hey, so, I would really like a dog that has severe emotional problems. I would really like it that whenever I leave the house – whether it be for ten minutes or ten days; I’d like her to have no concept of that or time on any continuum. I’d like her to act like every time I walk in the door it is as though I’d abandoned her forever, and that no amount of forgiveness will ever be suitable for my discretion’s. Bonus points if she freaks out when anyone gets within ten feet of me, is a complete loose cannon, and totally unpredictable. I’d like her most redeeming quality to be the tiny size of her poops.”
Nora is the also the biggest cockblock, excuse me – clam jam; that has ever existed on the face of the planet. She’s a bush-whacking, taco blocking, twat swatting, muffin muzzling, beaver damming, carpet cutting, snatch snagging, cunt punter. Here’s how it goes: Tanya meets a girl and somehow convinces her (usually with roofies) to accompany her home. Everything is going hunky-dorey until the shadow of the illustrious Nora suddenly appears at the foot of the bed. At this point, tragedy has stuck in her world. She’s wearing a tiny superhero cape that reads “Thou shalt not get laid.” Her favorite “tricks” include the following: whining like she has to go out but when you finally put your clothes on and let her out she just sits on the front lawn and eyes you smugly without peeing, or the latter option which involves stealthily making her way onto the bed like a motherfucking ninja and snaking the covers until her paws are resting on someone’s boob. Then she looks them in the eyes and breathes so slowly and deliberately. Clearly, the mystery still remains as to why I don’t get laid a lot. Thanks Nora.
Strangely, as such a well-adjusted dog, she didn’t dig my recent promotion at work as much as I did – which changed my hours and schedule to a degree that deemed her existence as unsurvivable. It was as though she was a Prisoner of War. In my slighted absence she was being starved, tortured, and deprived of anything and everything dog related. My response was to hire a dog hiker, to twice a week take her on splendid gallivants throughout Utah’s grandest mountain ranges. I now receive constant videos and pictures of Nora on her hikes that mostly involve her sandwiched between Black Labradors and Golden Retrievers, with her spiteful little face waggling up switchbacks looking at me as to say, “Hey Mom, you see this?” Then I have to confront the inevitable reality that I pay real money to have someone hike my Chihuahua to keep her mildly sane. If I didn’t have white people problems before, I certainly have them now.
In the time it took to write this blog entry, Nora has done the following: bit her nails down to the quick despite the fact I had trimmed them for her, dug at my comforter like she was headed for China, and barked at the next-door-neighbor like she was sitting in her house clearly coming up with a plan that would lead to Nora’s imminent demise. Like Zoolander she can’t really turn left, and sometimes I wonder if she falls on the dog-version of the Autistic Spectrum. But let’s be real here – I’m not exactly a stunning example of human normalcy so it would only make sense for me to have a weird dog. If I had a Great Dane or a Standard Poodle, people would probably think I was a respectable member of society which would be entirely wrong and flawed. I can’t even blame her for the way she acts when someone walks in the front door. Wouldn’t you lose your shit too if YOU NEVER KNEW WHO WAS GOING TO WALK THROUGH YOUR FRONT DOOR AND 50% OF THE TIME THAT PERSON IS A TOTAL STRANGER? (I apologize but Nora’s inner monologue can only be transcribed with excessive use of the ‘CAPS LOCK’ button)
When I’m at work I often think about what she’s doing. If she has this little secret life where her dog friends come over and dress up and play poker (that had to come from somewhere right?) When I finally get home and she freaks out due to her obvious lack of understanding of the space time continuum? She’s in utter distress because she missed me, and you know what? I probably missed her too. I love Nora despite her flaws, and she loves me despite mine. When I look at her tiny Chihuahua face I think two things: 1. “Oh my god I can’t believe I own a Chihuahua,” and 2. “She’s just so innocent!” And dogs are. They know not jealousy, or evil. They’re not going to judge your questionable life decisions or yell at you for not taking out the trash. They’re just going to love you and be dogs. It doesn’t quite matter whether or not I found Nora or Nora found me; somehow we found one another and it’s just right. I’d wish Nora a Happy National Dog Day but Nora? She thinks that’s just every day. I love you, you little brat, and you’ll always be mine.