Sheena, Chico, and Cholo

The first time I met Sheena did not end well.

Half Golden Retriever, half Irish Setter, Sheena was a gorgeous dog with a fiery red-orange coat and magnificent, elegant feathering. Her chest was deep and her build slender and athletic. Her movement was graceful and fluid, she simply glided along with paws barely touching the ground.

She loved ear scratches and petting. But there was an issue with mussed up hair once the affection was over. She would wildly flail her head back and forth. She also drooled profusely.

My future bride first brought Sheena to the gas station where I was working for an introduction. We got along quite well. Until the ear scratching stopped. She shook her head wildly and elastic strings of drool wildly catapulted out in all directions and spooged a parts display.

It took a very laborious hour to meticulously clean up all of that dog spit.

Sheena had limitless energy that simply could not be burnt off and there was no amount of exercise and attention that was ever enough. Even the tiniest slight was made known by discreetly tearing the garbage open and methodically and evenly depositing it across an entire room. For Sheena, revenge was best served cold.

Upon approaching the breaking point and nearly ready to begrudgingly accept that perhaps not every dog/human relationship will work out, somewhere deep inside Sheena a switch was flipped. Perhaps somewhere deep inside of me a switch flipped as well.

Sheena rather suddenly was no longer a spastic dynamo but was refreshingly chilled out, and no longer constantly ran aimlessly and pointlessly about the house. After playing and exercise the beautiful red-orange dog would gently snuggle up, coyly sliding her head under hand for some ear scratching. Also gone were the days of being a wild terror in the car, bouncing from front to back, from window to window maniacally barking at every pedestrian, squirrel, bird or airplane overhead, and every other car in sight.

Instead, she would simply climb into the car and sit in the passenger seat in a most stately fashion, head held high, never breaking into bad posture and knowingly gazing about at the very things that had previously reduced her to a spastic lunatic. Sheena looked more like the Queen of England majestically riding in a motorcade than a dog out for a car ride.  

And just as water seeks its own level, the wild dog with boundless energy settled down and I adapted to her as much as she adapted to me. We became trusted and constant companions. Unless context warranted it, we were always together.

Sheena had within her all the energy of a stick of dynamite but unfortunately also had a very fast fuse. She graced this world for only nine very dynamic years.

It was impossible to count exactly how many were in the litter. It seemed like a swirling vortex of yipping and nipping chaos, except for one little dog profound in his calmness. This was the era of Tinker the Taco Bell dog, and my then wife and I had responded to a “Chihuahuas for sale” want ad.

The sedate puppy had a chocolate brown with tan coat that was not as sleek as the others and was adorned with somewhat Groucho Marx-like tan eyebrows. His features were not as chiseled and distinct as his siblings and cousins. But his demeanor was distinctly laid back and his eyes were large and dewy and soulful. I no sooner picked him up and cradled him in my arm before he crawled upon my shoulder and was licking the side of my face. After that, there was no argument to be made that the prettier dogs in the litter would be a better fit than this less than perfect example of the breed. And so, Chico came into our home.

Chihuahuas have a deserved reputation for being saucy, smart, stubborn, moody, and yippy. Chico was no exception but in situ was affable and good natured. Indeed, he enjoyed the attention and affection from random strangers despite being fiercely loyal and protective of me.

Everybody loved Chico.

Chico was also clever enough to run a con. He astutely learned the boundaries of the yard, knowing there would be no leash by staying within them. The scam was to patiently wait until I was not paying attention for a moment, then make a break to venture into the tall grass of a nearby vacant lot for some exploring. He was also smart enough to sneak back in from another vector when I went looking for him.

Chico also had a little bit of a drinking problem. During a barbeque or back yard get together, if someone happened to put an opened can of beer on the ground the scam was to stealthily creep in then quickly tip the can over, vigorously lapping up as much as possible before we could scoop him up and away from the spill.

Our yard in Lake Havasu City was fenced in, very large and lush, a real-life oasis in the middle of the desert. This became Chico’s personal domain, and he assumed the all-important role of Protector of the Oasis. One day while chasing an archnemesis, a collared lizard, his head became lodged between two fence slats, and he began violently and uncontrollably jerking backwards trying to break free. The slats were able to be parted slightly and Chico popped free then staggered backwards a few steps before collapsing onto the ground. I feared his neck was broke and stood there petrified, too flabbergasted to even think about getting him medical attention.

After what seemed an eternity, he miraculously sprang back to life as quickly as he had collapsed, only to tear after a foolishly bold quail that had the audacity to venture into his domain. The Protector of the Oasis was back.

Chico’s most endearing quality was being an affectionate and constant companion, using his stealthy ninja skills not only to topple opened beer cans, but to sneak up onto my lap. Whenever I sat, the little brown dog would magically appear from nowhere. Being a morning person and apparently, Chico also a morning dog, it was a ritual to sit together and eat breakfast and welcome in the new day while the rest of the world slept.

Years later, a gifted artist friend created a portrait of Chico that hangs by my breakfast table. In spirit, to this very day we welcome in the new day together.

One evening Chico seemed out of sorts, so I slept on the couch with him cradled in my arms. At bar closing time, the roar of an obnoxiously loud motorcycle thundered through an open window and stirred us both out of sound sleep. To calm him, I petted Chico and spoke softly, and his breathing first relaxed then stopped. I cried shamelessly.

Some folks may unwittingly say that a dog is just a dog, but they are wrong. A dog is a living being that can mystically connect us in a way many other “animals”, including some human simply cannot.

Time marched on but there remained a void. “I know you are still upset about Chico”, my then wife said nearly a year later, as I stood brushing my teeth. I spit, said nothing, and upon turning towards her she revealed the tiny black dog and set him into the crook of my arm.

Initially there was a momentary flush of bitterness that another dog could somehow replace my departed pal. I reluctantly began petting the little black Chihuahua and within a few moments his tail wagged feverishly, and he crawled up onto my shoulder and was soon licking my neck and cheek.

Whereas Chico was not the most stellar example of the breed this dog’s appearance was magnificent. His coat was sleek and black, his features picture-perfect, and his dark eyes were large and dewy and soulful. But unlike Chico, this dog’s eyes had a devilish twinkle. This little black dog was cocksure and had swagger, he was a somewhat of a gangster.

We named him Cholo.

And Cholo was indeed not a replacement for Chico but became a constant companion in his own right. He shared many of the endearing traits common to the breed but had a personality unlike any other dog I had ever met before. Evidently Cholo never got the memo that he only weighed six pounds.

Cholo took on the role of Protector of the Yard and then took it to new levels. He was not scooped up to prevent lapping up the occasional illicit beer spill, but to prevent being him from being shredded by dogs twenty times his weight that he ferociously tried to rout out of the yard.

You see, Cholo can somehow make it known to all creatures great and small that this is his world, and the rest of us just get to live within it.  He is the most kind and loving and loyal dog when idyllically settled into lap before hearth in home. But if anything, or anyone dares intrude, meet the Joe Pesci of the dog world.

My mind’s eye caricature of this little gangster dog would be as a gun toting rebel plying the deserts, a bandolier across each shoulder, but Cholo is actually somewhat of a mariner. Often in the summer I would grab two cans of beer and a bar of soap and row out to the Owl Rock for a swim and to wash up. It simply never came to mind that a Chihuahua might enjoy such a thing. But life is a great experiment, and despite having doubts and misgivings, one day Cholo came along.

He loved it!

He would perch precariously outstretched on the bow cap, nose thrust into the wind, toenails feverishly clawing to hang on with each stroke of the oars, a little black Chihuahuan Figurehead. Once beached at the Owl Rock, he would slowly and methodically examine and sniff each of the thousand or so owl pellets, occasionally gently rolling a particularly interesting specimen over with his paw for a more in-depth examination and whiff. It took Cholo the same amount of time to examine the owl dung as did for me to swim, bath, consume two beers and then dry.

Unlike Chico, Cholo was never clever nor subtle nor sneaky in the escape plan. His unwavering method when unleashed was to simply march away in whatever direction fancied at that given moment, and he could not be called nor lured back and would have to be caught or captured. To satisfy his lust for freedom, occasionally we would row out the Otter Island with the obligatory two beers and bar of soap. Being a tiny island, he could run free for hours, until exhausted, without the fear of him running away never to be seen again.

During each chapter of my life there has been the companionship of a dog that meant as much to me as the people and places and things also present at the time. However, there has not been a dog in my life for the last 3 ½ years, probably the longest stretch ever without a canine pal. My human friends were constantly on “dog lookout” and suggested some potentially wonderful companions, but for a myriad of reasons it just never happened. The stars simply did not align.

That changed recently. Despite being a bit apprehensive, a new friend Stormy has entered my life. She is very smart, clever, well behaved, and loving. She is also loves being outdoors and rather rapidly moved me into a much more vigorous daily exercise routine. We take many walks together!

Stormy is the perfect canine companion for this chapter of my life. I hope to be a good human companion to her in return.