Computer on my lap in my bed…best friend right nearby:
For the uninformed, that’s Haze Hayes, my chihuahua dog. He used to blog and I’m considering giving him a piece of this blog once a week if demand allows. Here’s one of my favorite posts of his from hazehayes.blogspot.com
About a month ago, a young attractive woman stopped dad and I in front of a local Woodside establishment. She wanted to know what kind of dog I was (actually she thought I was a cat on a leash–let’s just say she had been imbibing). She then began to talk about moving here from California and dad’s Cubs jacket. She asked to hold me and dad was skittish (with the imbibing and all)but he let her hold me but had to hand me to her. She left a lipstick stain (and an impression of stale cigarette breath) on me before we left. (Dad had a hard time explaining that one to mom who immediately made him wash my face). After dad mentioned that “his wife and I live down the street,” she suddenly had to leave.
So who do we run into last night? The same barfly! Natch, she didn’t remember the previous month’s conversation and she was imbibing a bit less this time. But she was even more nuts than last time.
“Well, I used to live in California and then I moved to this neighborhood but now I live in the Spanish neighborhood…with all those damn Mexicans!”
My ears perked up immediately–dad noticed.
“I mean this is a nice neighborhood and the 61st street subway is fine. But on 69th street…it’s all dirty Mexicans, who smell and I have to be cramped next to them on the subway.”
Dad frowned disapprovingly at the statement.
“I don’t mean to be an a***ole. Sorry,” she added.
Dad looked at her squarely in her glassy-eyed face and said,
“Did you not notice he’s a chihuahua?! Ergo, that makes him Mexican.”
Oops. Look at my dad! Standing up for the oppressed–even us canine members. Never let it be said that dad is a racist.