By Judith Roberts
Have I told you about my dog, Che-che?
Before my current dog, Bexley, and before our Chihuahua Vicki, there was another Chihuahua: Che-che.
My parents bought Che-che for me when I was in the fourth grade. I had asthma, and while there is an old wives’ tale that says that Chihuahuas are good for asthmatics, we actually got her because we wanted a small dog who didn’t shed much (spoiler alert: Chihuahuas shed like crazy). She was a small, deer-headed blonde Chihuahua, and I loved her dearly.
Did I mention she was a terror?
Some dogs have more of a sassy personality than others, and Che-che was most definitely full of sass. I won’t say spirit or spunk – no, that dog was sassy. She was a notorious biter and wanted her own way. She was supposedly my pet, but she didn’t come with me to college – she wouldn’t have tolerated it, nor would have my dad. She was technically my dog, but she loved my dad, and she followed him around every second he was home.
She tolerated Mom. Sometimes.
One of her favorite activities was riding around on my parents’ lawn mower. My dad had rigged up an old plastic milk carton to the top of the lawn mower, and it was one of her favorite activities to ride on that mower with my dad.
The neighbors got a kick out of it, too. It was not uncommon to see people drive slllloooowwwwllllyyy past our house when Dad and Che-che were mowing. Just picture it: A gray-haired 50 year old man in blue jeans and a T-shirt mowing his acre yard with a chunky (because she loved to eat) Chihuahua riding in style on the top of the mower.
So one day, because my dad was a tugboat driver and was gone for weeks at a time, my mom got on the mower to cut the grass, and she absolutely refused to let Che-che ride, too. “I’m not going to have all the neighbors think I’m crazy with that dog on my mower,” she told me.
Che-che did not take it well.
She sat on our porch and watched Mom mow, her eyes on Mom the entire time she mowed the lawn. And Che-che bided her time. So when Mom got off, Che-che ran up and bit her on the ankle and then ran away as fast as she could.
There was another time when my cousin, Bryce, was irritating Che-che, playing around with her. Though he was enjoying it, she was not. And she knew her “safe space” was her pet taxi – her pet carrier, but it had the words “Pet Taxi” above the door. Bryce didn’t listen, and he put his hands in her pet taxi and came back out quickly after she bit all up and down his arms – and then, I kid you not, she reached out and slammed the door shut with her clawed paw.
Like I said – sassy.
