Chihuahua Karma

by Rice, Debby

  “Shouldn’t we get an appointment?” Charmaine asked. “How many fleas could even live on a dog this tiny?”

  “Do you know that an adult flea can lay up to 50 eggs per day, and when those eggs hatch, they fall off the dog onto the furniture, the bedding—all over the place?” Larry gave me a look of disgust as though he had just discovered flea eggs in the carpeting.

  I began to scratch. I wasn’t sure whether the itching was in my heart or my head. I didn’t know what vet CJ had suggested, probably Feingold. But there was a definite chance of seeing Richard.

  “Look at that,” Larry said, pointing an accusing finger at me.

  Charmaine grabbed a couple of paper napkins from the coffee table. She spread one out on the floor and folded the other over her hands. Then, holding me away from her body, she picked me up and deposited me on the floor. “All right, I’ll get her right over there. Sugar, you stay on that napkin. Do not move. Larry, don’t let her move.” Charmaine ran off to get her coat.

  “I’m not touching her,” he said, turning the TV back on full-blast again. As soon as Charmaine left the room, Larry looked down at me and said, “You better hope you don’t have fleas. She’ll never let you back in the house.” Then he laughed and flicked his cigar in my direction. A spray of ashes fell on my head.

  “Okay, I’m ready.” Charmaine was wearing a trench coat and carrying a Prada shopping bag. “I thought it would be best not to wear fur,” she said.

  “Good idea,” said Larry giving her a sideways grin. “You wouldn’t want to have thousands of itchy little visitors crawling around in your sable.”

  She put the bag on the floor, open end facing me, and gave my behind a little push with her toe. “Okay, Suggie, get in.”

  This was so absurd that I wanted to bite her ankle or a make a mess on the floor. But with the possibility of seeing Richard close enough that I could almost smell him, I calmed myself. Now was not the time for extreme acts of disobedience. I needed to pick my battles.

  “Come on, Suggie. Hurry up. It’s Prada,” Charmaine said as if she was offering me a dress or a purse.

  Tail between my legs, I slunk into the bag.

  “Bye, Larry. I’ll be back in a little bit. It’s right over on Rush, so I’m not taking a car,” said Charmaine.

  My heart lifted. We were headed in the right direction.

  It was cold out, but Charmaine, obviously fearful of what I might contaminate, had not covered me. But I was too excited to care. The top of the bag was a periscope through which I saw a hopeful patch of blue sky. I heard the comforting racket of traffic—horns, brakes and the hiss of tires on asphalt—punctuated by tantalizing snippets of conversation from passersby.

  I was savoring being out in the world when Charmaine stopped. She paused for a moment, then a buzzer sounded. I felt her pull a door opened, and we were inside. She began climbing stairs. My canine receptors clicked into overdrive. I sniffed and detected a trace of the lemony scent that was Richard. My heart beat faster. The stairs ended, and Charmaine turned left, in the direction of Feingold.

  My whole body—tail, ears and snout—sagged with disappointment.

  She opened another door.

  “Hello, I’m Charmaine Ratzinger. I’d like to see Dr. Feingold.”

  “Well, I’m guessing you’re not the patient,” came the response. I could see water-stained white ceiling tiles and hear the breathing of other animals.

  “No, the appointment is for Sugar. She’s in here.” Charmaine lifted the bag, but she did not take me out.

  “Is Sugar a dog or a cat?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. She’s a mini Chi.”

  “Is that a dog or a cat?” From the receptionist’s bored tone, it was obvious that she didn’t care whether I was a chimpanzee.

  “It’s a mini Chihuahua. They’re a very new breed.” Irritation radiated from Charmaine.

  “Is this an emergency?” asked the receptionist. I heard papers ruffle.

  “Well, kind of,” said Charmaine.

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “We just got her, and we want to have her checked out to make sure she’s okay. Also,” the bag pitched and crackled as Charmaine leaned forward and whispered, “we think she might have fleas.”

  “Okay, well, it will be a wait. Maybe an hour till I can fit you in.”

  “I’ll just read a magazine,” said Charmaine. “Do you have W or Chicago Social?”

  “We might have a copy of Dog Fancy,” said the receptionist. “Doctor also needs you to fill out this form with your pet’s medical history.”

  “Well, I don’t really know her history.” I heard the hesitation in Charmaine’s voice and wondered how she would shimmy her way around this unexpected interrogation.

  “She is your dog, isn’t she?” said the receptionist.

  “Of course. I told you. I just got her from a friend who couldn’t keep her anymore. I didn’t ask about her history.”

  “Well, you should find out. It’s very important. Fill in whatever you can.”

  Charmaine took a seat. She left me in the bag on the floor. I could see her face through the opening. “Don’t worry, Suggie, I’m sure it won’t be long.” She patted the side of the bag.

  I considered my options. It would be easy to jump out of the bag. But the door to the office was probably closed. I would not get any closer to Richard. Was the sight of him enough to make me happy? Of course not. I needed him to see me or at least to feel my presence. But I was helpless to resist the possibility of a glimpse through that punishing one-way mirror. I imagined one scenario and then another for how I might reach him. In the midst of these restless thoughts, Lucille drifted into my consciousness like the curl of smoke around a fire. I wondered what mental bridge had connected her with Richard, and I realized it was Regret, my new best friend.

  Charmaine stuck her face into the bag and whispered, “Suggie, I’m really getting tired of waiting. They don’t even have any good magazines. And this is not a very nice office.” It actually did smell rank, even to a dog. “You’re not scratching. Larry just wanted to get me out of the house. I don’t know why I listened to him. We’ll wait 10 more minutes, then we’re going. You want to come and sit with Mommy?” My tail thumped against the bag. Charmaine took a couple of Kleenexes out of her purse and put them across her lap. “Just in case,” she said. “Okay, here you go.” She lifted me up and settled me on her lap.

  As she did this, a tall redhead lurched into the waiting room behind a Doberman. The dog was straining so hard at the lead that his eyes were popping out of his head. Without thinking, I leaped to the ground. My paws skid on the linoleum. The Doberman cast me a hungry glare, but I kept going and slid through the door just as it was about to slam shut. I ran down the hall, planted myself in front of Richard’s office and barked until my ears rang. Charmaine was right behind me. “Suggie, Suggie, what are you doing? What’s the matter with you?”

  I could not answer that question. My actions were pure instinct. I kept barking. Charmaine hovered over me, arms opened as though she’d been assigned to the outfield and commanded to catch a fly ball. Her face was white and pinched with distress. She seemed to be afraid to touch me.

  “Suggie, what’s wrong? Why won’t you be quiet?” she pleaded.

  Then, as if my will was a force of nature, the door to Richard’s office opened. A UPS delivery man carrying a clipboard came out. I ran over his boots and up to the receptionist’s desk and started barking again. Charmaine followed. The receptionist looked startled, but she laughed. “Hey, what’s going on?” she said. “Were you looking for Dr. Preston? You just missed him. He had to leave a little early today. Just me here, catching up on the paperwork.”

  Was I doing stand-up for the universe? Could anyone have ever been so outrageously unlucky? Panting and exhausted, I lay down on the floor and buried my nose in my paws.

  “I am so sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” said Charmaine, looking at me as t
hough I had grown a second tail. “She’s really acting strange.” Charmaine scanned the room, obviously relieved to see that there was no one else there. “I was taking her to Dr. Feingold because we thought she might have fleas, but it was such a long wait. I think she must have been upset by the smell in there. I know I certainly was.”

  “Has she been scratching?” asked the receptionist.

  “Well, not really. Just a tiny bit. Do fleas make a dog bark?”

  “No, they just make them scratch. I’ll show you how to check her. You should do this from time to time. My name’s Sally. I’m Dr. Preston’s assistant.”

  “I’m Charmaine Ratzinger, and this is Sugar.”

  “Let’s go in the back, and we’ll put her on an examining table.”

  “Thanks so much.” Charmaine gingerly picked me up and handed me to Sally.

  “You’re okay now, aren’t you, Sugar?” said Sally. She put me down on the table and ran her hands through the fur at the base of my tail, peering at my skin. “See? You push her fur back like this and look for little black dots that move around.”

  Charmaine pursed her lips and looked the other way.

  “All clear. No bugs on this little dog.”

  “Thank God you’re okay, Suggie,” said Charmaine. She picked me up and kissed me on the head.

  I was too devastated to be pleased that I was pestfree.

  Charmaine put me back in the shopping bag. “Thanks very much. Could you give me Dr. Preston’s card? Maybe I’ll make an appointment for Sugar when he’s in.”

  Just then, my nostrils flared and my ears pricked up. I caught an absolutely irresistible scent, and I knew that it was Richard .

  “Sally? Sally, are you back there? I need the extra set of car keys. I thought they were in the drawer here, but I can’t find them.” He was just a few yards away.

  “They’re in the drawer on the right side. I’ll be right there,” Sally said.

  Just hearing his voice made me whole. I had arms and legs. I felt free. But the reality was that I was still on the examining table and it was a long way to the ground. I willed Charmaine to pick me up and carry me into the next room, but she stood still as a mannequin, waiting for Sally.

  “Got ’em. See you tomorrow.” I head the door slam.

  It was over before I had a chance to react. I couldn’t bark or move. Yet, instead of being desolate, I felt suffused with magic—as though I had reached into the sky and touched a star.

  Chapter 9

  “Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting. And commeth from afar.”

  William Wordsworth

  Who would have thought that a Sleeping Beauty Heirloom Mattress (more expensive than a mink coat—I should know, I picked it out) could whomp and buckle like plate tectonics on the San Andreas Fault? Their performance was so disgusting that I longed for sensory deprivation. But it was impossible not to watch. I was transfixed and revolted by my own fascination with the pornographic Cinemax unfolding in my former bedroom.

  “Damn it, Char. Do it like the movie,” Larry grunted, shoving himself at Charmaine’s face. “Do you see drool coming out of her mouth?”

  Charmaine wagged her head like a bobble doll to indicate that she had understood. Her eyes rolled up to the flat screen above the fireplace, where her lip-glossed look-alike was engaged in a sword-swallowing feat that could only occur in the movies. Larry slapped her hard on the butt in an effort to get her to step up the tempo. She was already sucking on him like an Electrolux without much success.

  I was beginning to see where Charmaine got the better of me. She appeared to be enjoying this. Perhaps she was sublimating degradation for working out with Larry as her personal trainer?

  “Oh, God. Stop Charmaine. It’s not going to happen. It’s that dog. Why is it staring at us?”

  I was sitting at the foot of the bed. And of course I was staring and longing to shoot bullets from my eyes. I was a dog who should be a person. I lived in this bedroom and was married to this piece of shit who was screwing a younger, stupider, greedier woman on the burgundy velvet bedspread and eggplant throw pillows with silk tassels that I had selected. These two losers wallowing in my bedding were desecrating the holy relics of my previous life.

  Larry took a cigar out of the humidor on the bedside table, lit it and blew a cloud of stinky smoke my way. Charmaine grabbed the fireplace remote and hit Start. The gas swooshed on, and flames the color of a 70s shag rug licked the cement logs.

  “Sugar’s not staring at us. She’s watching the TV. Everyone knows dogs love television. You’re so cute, Suggie baby. And no fleas!”

  Charmaine leaned over and kissed me on the head. She did this at least 20 times a day. Her lipstick had left an indelible pink stain between my ears. As I repressed the urge to vomit or bite, she pulled a bottle of champagne out of the mini-fridge and filled two glasses. She was wearing a flesh-colored lace teddy and a black satin thong and had arranged her hair in a ponytail. I, too, was festooned in lace. It was a big step up from my Lucky Dream clown suit. Who knew that there was Chi Couture? Yes, I was wearing a Chanel knockoff black-velvet mini-skirt with lace tube top and faux pearl choker.

  “That dog gives me the creeps,” said Larry. “I wish you would get rid of it. There’s something about those big buggy eyes in that tiny head that really bothers me. And what’s with that weird fur on its neck.”

  “Larry, you don’t understand. This is not a dog. It’s a statement. It’s a very exclusive breed. The mini Chi, the world’s smallest dog, is distinguished from its cousin the Chihuahua by its even-more-diminutive stature and a ruff of fur around its neck.” Charmaine handed Larry a glass of champagne as if she wanted him to toast my pedigree.

  Charmaine had been researching me and could parrot esoteric statistics like the most enthusiastic baseball fanatic—the smallest mini Chi on record is 6 inches from head to tail. As of November 30, 2001, there were a total of 500 mini Chis in existence. And here is the discovery that was most interesting to me: “The Aztecs adopted the Chihuahua as a sacred icon of the upper class. It is said the dogs were used in religious ceremonies to redress sins and as guides for the spirits of the dead.”

  “Char, you really are clueless sometimes,” said Larry. “You need to read more. Try Vanity Fair or People. This condo is a statement. My Hummer is a statement. That diamond I bought you is a statement. This dog does not say you’ve arrived; it says you love rodents. And how many times do I have to tell you that I don’t like champagne?”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. It’s that thing with my short-term memory again. You know, after I got hit with the soccer ball in eighth grade. I told you about that. Would you like me to make you a martini instead? Anyway, Suggie Woogie,” she said staring in my eyes, “I don’t care what he thinks. You’re my very own statement.” Then she picked me up and rubbed her nose against my snout in an energetic Eskimo kiss.

  “No martini, Char. Why don’t you roll me a doobie?”

  Larry was lolling naked on the bed, finger-combing his wiry hair. I noticed that he was shedding. A dozen kinky brown hairs littered the 600 thread-count pillowcase. He’d need a weave if he kept that up.

  There was satisfaction in knowing that I was not the one who had to fondle that doughy physique. The condo had a gym with a floor-to-ceiling view of Lake Michigan. For a while, Larry spent hours there frantically trying to tread away the potbelly that looks like a five-month baby bump. But he had the kind of endomorphic body that resisted muscle. Eventually, he realized that no matter how many gallons he sweat, the gut wasn’t going anywhere.

  “You can’t smoke pot and a cigar at the same time. The room is going to stink.”

  “I sure can,” he said, taking a big drag on the joint. He held his breath, grunted, then blew more smoke in my face. “CJ gets the best weed in the city—maybe in the world—and that’s why we have a very expensive air-filtration system.”

  �
��Listen Char,” Larry brushed ashes off his chest. “I want to have a party. Very high-end. Maybe 100 guests, mostly clients. We’re gonna have a casino. CJ’s going to find me some people to run the games, and he’ll supply the ‘party favors.’ Hire an event planner. I want Christmas trees, the kind that look like they have snow on the branches and lights all over the place. Get an A/V consultant. Invite those twins, Brandy and Mandy, that you used to hang out with and have them bring some friends. Buy something really hot to wear.”

  “But, Larry, we’re Jewish.”

  “What does that have to do with it? When Christmas is a party theme, it’s non-denominational. Oh, and I definitely want a Santa. There has to be a dirty Santa. You better make notes, Char. I wouldn’t want your memory problem to fuck things up and have you renting a dirty Jesus. Now, that would be funny.”

  “Sure, Larry.” Charmaine opened a drawer in the bedside table and took out a legal pad and pencil. “I’ll start on it tomorrow.” She began her list—trees, lights, wreath, dirty Santa… She seemed to be suffering from multiple personality disorder—doormat for Larry, drill sergeant for Lucille, and dopey for me.

  There was knock on the bedroom door.

  “What the fuck. Who’s that?” said Larry.

  “It’s me. Lucille. I just want to say good night to Sugar.”

  Lucille’s voice sent me into a frenzy of tail-wagging.

  “Sugar is sleeping, and you should be too.” Disciplinarian Charmaine had resurfaced.

  “Please, please, Charmaine, just let me say good night to her. I haven’t seen her for two days.”

  “I’m sorry, Lucille, it is past your bedtime.”

  I let out a high-pitched yelp to ensure that Lucille could hear me.

  “Shut that dog up, Charmaine. Is it epileptic?” Larry picked up a pillow and threw it in my direction.

  “Sugar, what’s the matter with you? You be quiet.” Charmaine grabbed my muzzle and squeezed it closed. I whimpered as loudly as I could.

  “You’re hurting her. I know you are.” Lucille pounded on the door.