I’m Itzy Bitz, a Chihuaoodle from Chicago, and here’s the scooper.
It was happening at the Happening…
Once I got to the Dog-O-Ween gala at Mod.Dog, I kept abreast of all furry activity. I marked my territory behind the boulder near the spouting fountain, i.e. the water trough and layed low, waiting for them to appear. One by one they pranced by me, gracing the red carpet with their teased manes in full designer clad. I crouched lower still, behind the same boulder remaining out of sight. Okay it’s really just a rock, but nobody saw me, which meant getting the real scooper on all unscripted goings-on at this major event.
I finally got to talk to Tiffany. I have to admit, she looked fabulous in that French maid’s costume by Vira Weimaraner. Now you know who won the battle. And incase you’re wondering, she has no extensions; I checked—inconspicuously, of course. But she got all snooty when I asked her about her hair color. She tipped her snout up, which by the way, can use a little straightening, and said, “This is not a colour…It is mine.” And she said colour like its spelled, like that long tongue of hers got caught up in her teeth somewhere when she said it. What can I say; some individuals think they walk on two legs.
FeeFee La Quishe, by chance, was next. She wore a fifties outfit complete with poodle skirt and cardigan—a Weimaraner favorite. She looked adorable and was walked in with Rodge, one of Boca’s finest from the canine unit. And fine he is, ladies. That German physique kept tongues dangling, including Tiffany’s. If her eyes got any greener, she’d be a cat…oops, I said the “c” word, my apologies. Anyway, FeeFee might have lost the costume, but she won the prize and was a pure delight to talk to. I asked her if she would show again. She said, “Don’t think I’ll do it this year. I may be retiring. Let the young pups have their moment in the sun. I just want to chase my tail and eat trailmix and cookies.” Isn’t that the most eloquent thing you’ve ever heard? I LOVE her!
But the real highlight of the evening was meeting our firefighter friend. Who, by the way, was there without Gena. Funny that. Anyhow, I found out his name is Jake and he’s an AWESOME hound. We kind of joked a little about his being stereotyped as a firehouse dog. He said he didn’t mind at all and that he actually was born in a firehouse and holds an allegiance to all firemen. But his real love is helping people. He’s actually part Lab and wanted to be trained as a Seeing Eye dog, but they wouldn’t allow him into the program because of a failed hearing test. Instead he volunteers his time, visiting several nursing homes on Sundays, and he also does the children’s hospital circuit every other week. Says he loves giving sick kids a reason to smile and the strength to gush all over him. Now there’s a guy with his spots in all the right places.
After the red carpet stride, I was in dire need of some refreshments. I first had to get lost in the crowd. It wasn’t hard to remain unseen amongst this gathering of illustrious pedigrees. First of all, I’m quit petite, since my mother was a mini-French Poodle purebred and dad was a tough Chihuahua who nobody messed with. I get my Latin temper from him, and my naturally curly locks from mom. My parents met at Hydrant Square, one of the first dog parks ever created. My dad took one gander at mom’s big black eyes and ball-poofed tail and knew she was the one…who came after the other one, who came after the first six. Must have been the Latin charm. I get that from him too, so I’ve been told. Mom never knew about dad’s legion of lovers until she caught him trying to mount Geneva, the cat next door who was having none of that. I remember my parents barking at each other for days over it. Dad finally took Mom back to Hydrant Square to rekindle some of the old sparks. It didn’t work. Instead, she met Maurice, a well-groomed, suave and sophisticated Poodle from Paris. They spoke the same language of love. It didn’t hurt that he had his own doghouse on the water in Hyland Beach, next to his owner’s mansion. Maurice had this air about him. One whiff and you were a goner. My mother fell hard and took off with him. Dad went home and sharpened his teeth on his toughest chew bone and a pair of our owner’s socks—their good ones. Dad ended up with indigestion and a mild reprimand until they noticed mom missing. That’s when the flyers went up and the search began. Dad led the pack down A1A, ready to chomp down on Maurice’s nether region. My mother, of course, was innocent of all of this. Our owner spotted them on the beach lying in the dunes, wet and sandy, sleeping nestled against one another. Dad spotted them too and took off ahead barking ferociously. Maurice saw him and took off the other way, leaving my mom, shaking the sand from her body, barking and scurrying back to our owners and, of course, to my dad. I like to keep this linage a secret from the thoroughbreds, so don’t tell anyone, especially the fact that I’m really a sundry breed.
Lesson of the month… Don’t Pick a Pompous Poodle with Poor Principles…
Signing off with the best Holiday Woofs until next time…IB
Read more about The Dish author, Adrien Balzano, and her latest book Red Hook at www.adrienbalzano.com.
