El poocho es muy repugnante!!!! (How's THAT for a cinco de mayo headline?)

Run. Run for your lives!

It's that time of year again. The time I dread. More than dental visits. More than OB/GYN appointments. More than the monthly call from my (very sweet and absolutely lovely) visiting supervisor--who has never ONCE chided me for my lack of visiting teaching zeal, but who is disappointed in me, nontheless.

It's time for the shedding of the chihuahuas.

Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up. (Ten points for the correct movie identification!) We have a dog. She is a large, hairy specimen of her species. I'd say breed, but what that may be is any body's guess. (I'm betting on a German shepherd-rottweiler-yeti mix, but I'm no expert.) She is the subject of punch-lines--literally: she actually followed my aunt home one day. We were given the fabulous opportunity to adopt her, and we thought, naively, "Hey, free dog. Cool!" Idiots.

Tibby is, in fact, a very good dog--as far as untrained, affection-starved pooches go. She doesn't attempt to sleep on our bed. (She's deathly afraid of stairs.) She doesn't climb up on the couch. She is a very effective door-to-door salesman deterrent. She eats what we give her without complaint. (That's a better attitude than three of the four children in the house have.)

Alas, no pooch is perfect. Some dogs smell odd; some look odd; some are odd. Tibby is of the last variety. She is a keen hunter of home-baked goods, having eaten whole pans of cookies and brownies--and once a frosted cake--left on counters to cool. (Not that the cake was cooling, of course. It was left out accidentally. No matter--the effect was the same. As were the eventual results and the clean-up.) She has a thing for feet, burrowing under them in desperate and annoying attempts to get belly rubs. She is driven insane by the sound of the doorbell, by knocking on doors, by knocking on wood, by knuckles accidentally tapping on tables, and even by knuckles merely passing millimeters above hard-ish surfaces.

But the worst trait, as stated previously, is the shedding of the chihuahuas.

Tibby is a thick-coated dog--obviously one of those hardy Northern breeds whose fur enables them to survive in extreme cold. Slight problem: we live in the desert. Fur here is a problem. So, when the temperatures start warming into the 90s, Tibby starts to shed. Chihuahuas. Disgusting, grody, fuzzy-matted hairy chihuahuas. (Happily--if such a tern can be used appropriately here, this answers the question of where chiuahuas come from. They are, in fact, a Tibby by-product. like drool, or deposits on the lawn. Just in case you thought they were some sort of dog or something.)

The chihuahuas, knowing I don't smile kindly upon them, scuttle away as soon as they are cast into the world, taking refuge under the refrigerator, under the couch, and under beds. They come out at night to hunt dust bunnies and to exchange tales of survival and non-grooming tips. When dawn arrives, they scurry back to safety. Occasionally one fails to make it back to its lair, and I pounce on it, screaming my war-cry: "AIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!! WHERE THE HECK DID THIS THING COME FROM???" sweeping it into oblivion. "DIE, YOU FILTHY THING! DIE!" Another day, another hunt, has begun.

I'm on the prowl. Take cover while you can.