Drama Queen

 

                                                 Drama Queen

What do you get when you cross a Chihuahua with a Jack Russel Terrier? A tightly wound and wired little bundle of nerves and hair. She was my little drama queen, Katie of the couch.

This puppy came into our lives one June day in 2003. I had promised my boys I would get them a dog. They wanted for one for years, so I brought them with me when I answered the ad for a chihuahua mix. Since this was going to be an inside dog, my only stipulation was that it be female and small.

The first time we saw her, she was barely four or five pounds and playing on the sidewalk trying to lick up the ants.  The boys fell in love with her and we spent the next fifteen years on a wild rollercoaster of events with her.

The first thing we discovered was that she, being a chihuahua mix, had an iron stomach; nothing much fazed her, except baths. Her first bath was traumatic because it was given by a thirteen-year-old boy when I was at work. He had no other choice because she got stuff all over her and it smelled. He didn’t know that you can’t leave puppies alone for one second in big tubs. I got an emergency call from him saying that Katie went under and he couldn’t revive her. I think I broke every speed record getting home and her to the vets, all the while Jay was in the backseat attempting mouth to snout resuscitation. After what Katie tried to eat, that was an act of love. She recovered and we took her home the next day. The next six months flew by and as most dogs do, she loved people food. She stalked it. We found out the hard way not to leave food unsupervised – she would often grab something from our plates and drag it behind a chair to eat. She once ate a whole chipotle sandwich. 

Katie had a favorite toy she loved to death – it was a cloth monkey that she would shake senseless just to see all its arms, legs, and tail flail about while growling. When I took her to be spayed it was too late. As the vet was checking her out, I pointed out that I was concerned her teats were swelling. “Uh oh”, he said. I had to swear up and down she hadn’t been with any other dogs. “Well, then,” he informed me, “Looks like she’s going through a false pregnancy – we have to wait for this to run it’s course before she gets spayed.” That monkey never left her side for the next six months.

This dog was an acrobat. She learned how to position herself on the back of my husband’s chair to hang over his shoulders in her efforts to intercept popcorn from the bag on its way to his mouth.

She also learned to balance herself on the back of my couch that was in front of my picture window. She loved soaking in the late afternoon sunshine. And during winters she practically baked herself in front of the heater grates.

Katie had a propensity to throw her hair in all directions when she was stressed, much like a cornered porcupine. One holiday my brother, whom Katie had never seen, walked in through the front door, his voice booming hello to everyone. Katie took one look at him, squealed, and dove onto my lap. After she managed to pee all over me, she sealed the deal with a quarter of her hair.

In the last five years of her life, she was on heart medications as she became progressively weaker. One rainy day in late September, she fell on her side and couldn’t get back up. Her breathing was erratic, but she held on until her boys got home. It was a steady rain the night she died and the boys insisted she stay at home. She was buried just after midnight. Lanterns lit the area in the backyard while the sound of shovels could barely be heard over the pouring rain carving her final resting place. A bit melodramatic? Yes. But Katie wouldn’t have had it any other way. Sweet dreams, my little drama queen.

 

published in Jackson Living community magazine October 2020