“How old are your dogs?” Having senior chihuahuas, my wife and I received that question a lot, although always in a well-meaning way.
One pleasant, sunny afternoon, I was walking both dogs as we encountered a gentleman, sitting on the corner, in broad daylight, smoking weed. Totally legal, so no one cared. In fact, he appeared to be on his lunch break from work, so I gave him extra points for that.
As our group turned the corner and passed in front of him, he asked, “How old are your dogs?”
I said, “About twelve years old,” which they were at the time.
That surprised and delighted him. “Wow, that’s like 40 years old in dog years.”
As a numbers person, I was somewhat bewildered by his calculated figure, but didn’t cast any judgment. My only thought was, Damn, that’s some good weed.
For the express relief of all dogs and people involved, my wife purchased this low-tech, but life-saving product called Fresh Patch. It is a small, rectangular, cut-out piece of grass, set in a shallow plastic tray, for our dogs to relieve themselves on.
It is a major convenience for dogs and for dog owners who don’t have a ground-level backyard or don’t have quick and immediate access to one. We place our Fresh Patch on our back deck, which is one floor above a very small outdoor patio. We receive a new Fresh Patch each month, conveniently shipped to our front door. My wife pays the monthly expense. I’m in charge of its maintenance, disposal, and rolling out its successor.
It is an additional expense we pay for our dogs, but it is completely worth it. It is a life-saver when your dog desperately needs to go at 2:00 a.m., or 5:00 a.m., or both. No more need to run out front, to the sidewalk, street, or nearest allowable tree.
The patch saves my wife from having to make such a trip by herself, late in the evening. It also saves us both the indignity and shame of having to present bed hair and bed face to the early-rising public at 6:30 a.m.
Fresh Patch, in its beautiful, fresh, verdant state
When a new patch is unfurled at the beginning of the month, it is pristine and unsoiled, it is indeed a fresh patch. As the month progresses, the patch gradually becomes less fresh and more ripe.
Our dogs are small dogs, but there are two of them. Each urinating frequently–a minimum of once a day–on the turf. Accumulated over the course of a month. At the end of the month, depending on excretory patterns and weather conditions, it becomes, to varying degrees, a gross, sour, putrid patch. (That’s by design–that’s what it’s for. No complaint or disparagement against the product or the company.)
The patch requires very little oversight or maintenance, as it is just a flat, stationary, pee-soaked piece of grass. The biggest wildcard is rain. The patch needs to be covered effectively with a tarp when it rains, as I found out the hard way.
One particular month in the spring of 2023, we happened to experience a higher-than-normal amount of rainfall for our area. On more than one occasion, I either completely forgot to cover the patch or I covered it inadequately. Looking at it, I could see that it had turned into a waterlogged piece of sod, sitting in the plastic tray, in a shallow pool of stagnant rainwater. I was dreading the day the new turf arrived and that drenched thing had to be handled. But of course, inevitably, that day did arrive.
As I initially approached the patch, I could smell right away that the pool of rainwater had not only reawakened and released the glorious natural scent of the dog urine, but was chemically reacting with it.
During the actual handling, the turf was soggy and heavy, which made for an unwieldy one-person job. However, the most challenging and treacherous part of the task involved the scent. All of that dried, stale dog piss, which had been absorbed over the course of the month, was now renewed. And fermenting. Without the use of some type of mask, the strong, sour scent was inescapable.
While wrangling the heavy, wet, disgusting biohazard, I made an explicit effort to only breathe through my mouth. And yet, multiple times, I had to step back, take a break, exhale the fumes, and loudly gasp, “Ohhhhhhh!” I’m actually glad, kind reader, that the words on this screen can’t accurately capture the full majesty of that scent.
And while carrying out this task, to add insult to olfactory offense, I could hear my wife providing her moral support and gratitude by laughing audibly at my plight from inside the house.
Since conceiving this piece, one of our two dogs passed away. For the sake of pleasant memories, I’m going back in time and writing this piece in the present tense. In loving memory of Yukon, RIP.
Russet and Yukon, our two senior chihuahuas, are excellent lap dogs and arm dogs. They are talented sleeping dogs, sleeping as many as 20 hours a day, but at the same time, are also keen guard dogs. They bark when they hear or smell a new person inside the house. They protect our house and family from a variety of nefarious evildoers–plumbers, painters, electricians, utility company workers, and package deliverers.
I warn such intruders ahead of time about the impending wrath they are about to experience and mention that our dogs are senior chihuahuas. Almost invariably, they understand and actually condone the barking. “A barking dog is a good dog.” “That’s good. That’s what a dog is supposed to do.”
Chi-Unit!
Russet and Yukon have two special barking routines:
Team barking. Once one dog barks, the other one starts barking, even if the latter isn’t aware of the reason for barking. It’s very supportive–strength in numbers, I got your back. The double chihuahua barking attack is every intruder’s mortal nightmare.
Bed barking. The two also bark remotely, from their bed. Rather than running to the point of intrusion and confronting the interloper head-on, they conveniently bark from their home base, in another room. Perhaps this is part of an ambush strategy. Russet even barks from under his blanket in bed, without feeling the need to emerge.
The two really don’t bark much otherwise. Not until it’s go time. Then instincts kick in and they bark like they mean it, with conviction. They are not playing around, they really throw themselves into their guard dog roles. And I wonder what their mindset is. What kind of shit talking do they think they’re doing with all that barking?
A dog from a police K9 unit confronting a suspect? Sure, I can imagine its barking as a vicious and credible threat: Hey asshole! I’ve been training all my life for this! If I get off leash, I’m going to chase you down, sink my teeth into your ass, and make you gush blood!
But two tiny senior chihuahuas? With Russet, I imagine his barking as: Hey intruder, my vision is bad and I’m not going to get up from bed. But if you come over here, right up to me so I can find you, and stand still and don’t move, I will go buck wild on your ass!
And then Yukon comes in for the team barking: Me too, motherfucker! I’m 98 years old, smaller than your shoe, and don’t have any teeth remaining. But if you take off your footwear, I will chomp your pinky toe with my gums until you scream and flee in terror!
Impressively, after one of their trademark barking episodes, after all the excitement, noise, and verbal intimidation, they are able to go back to sleep in less than two minutes. It’s amazing. They wake up suddenly from a deep sleep and immediately start barking. And then just as suddenly, they go back to sleep.
I am envious of that–second part. I wonder how they manage to wind down so quickly after such an adrenaline rush. If I got into a heated verbal altercation with strangers and was yelling physical threats, I would be amped-up for hours.
However, that’s not something I have to worry about. I don’t have that kind of drama and excitement in my life. On the contrary, my life is quite mundane, stable, and boring. Hell, if I worry too much about this week’s grocery list, I’ll lay awake in bed forever. Somewhat pathetic, I suppose, but I strongly prefer my boring, altercation-free life. And I strongly prefer it with our two dogs.
Our two senior chihuahuas, Russet and Yukon, had very different appreciations of food. Up until about a year ago, Russet used to be a very picky and selective eater. He would often balk at the food appearing in his dish or skip meals entirely. Not content with his own food, Russet would often be more interested in the EXACT SAME FOOD in Yukon’s dish. Damn! Why does that dog get all the good food?
On the other hand, Yukon, despite having no teeth, was a very enthusiastic eater. Upon being served, she would sprint to her food dish, eat whatever was offered, and lick the dish clean.
Frequently, after finishing the food in her dish, Yukon would check out Russet’s dish for leftovers. But she was a clever dog. She wouldn’t go over and blatantly eat his food in our presence. She would look around and see who might be paying attention to her scheming. For example, after the last feeding of the day, right before bedtime, she would kind of hang back before making her way from the dining room to the bedroom. Yeah, don’t mind me, I’m just going to…uhh…get a drink of water…and uhh… admire the hardwood floors. Go ahead without me, I’ll meet you in the next room shortly.
And on a couple of occasions, Yukon played the following game: She would eat all the food in her dish, save for a few crumbs or remnants. (I’m not sure if this was 100% intentional, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.) Russet, after balking at the food in his dish, would walk over to hers to enjoy a taste of the good food.Yes! And while being distracted by the good food, Yukon would sneak back over to Russet’s dish and enjoy a second serving from his full bowl.
Russet, the unwitting mark, took the bait and ended up falling for the ole switcheroo. Poor Russet was playing checkers, while Yukon was playing chess. Pawn to decoy, queen to full food dish. Checkmate!
Russet and Chess Master Yukon, in action, on the board
One fine, but abnormally hot evening, I was walking our dog, Russet, and happened across a 50-ish, brown-haired woman walking her respective dog. She observed Russet walking sluggishly and voiced her observation. I defended him and clarified, “He’s taking it easy because it’s hot.” To which she added, “Yeah, he’s like, ‘Fuck that shit!’”
Umm…That was not the particular interpretation I was expecting, ma’am. I literally just met you. I’m not sure why you think it’s OK to drop an F-bomb right in my face, without reservation, without regard for common decency.
But about 10 seconds after walking away from our interaction, I thought, Kudos to you, ma’am. You get me; you speak my language. I appreciate that. Good evening, indeed.
Mmm. What? No. NO! Not this again. Why are you rousting me from my blanket? I was asleep. Fuck, man. Why are you ALWAYS waking me up? I’m old. Let me sleep, goddamnit. I don’t need to whiz or eat. If I did, I would get up myself and let you know.
Yawn. Stretch. Shake.
Oh jeez, you’re putting on my coat. That means we’re going outside for a walk. But I don’t need to go outside, RIGHT NOW. It can wait. Why can’t you just let me keep sleeping? Seriously, you constantly do this to me.
It’s going to be cold outside, much colder than in this warm bed. And since it’s cold outside, of course I’m going to have to pee. Not because I’m full of pee and about to explode, but because you’ve taken me outside, where it’s cold. My point, again—all of this could have waited until later. We would have had the exact same outcome if you had just let me sleep some more.
Man, that walk sucked. I knew it would. Chihuahuas don’t like the cold. We like it when it is warm and sunny outside. That whole stupid walk could have been postponed in favor of more, uninterrupted sleep. At least we returned to the warm building and to a post-walk meal. I’m not that hungry right now, so I might decline to eat the food you’ve set out. You deserve that for waking me up. You probably don’t think that is an intentional act, calculated retribution, tit-for-tat.
All right, now that mealtime is over, I’m going back to bed, to resume sleeping. Please let me sleep until I decide it’s time to wake up. It seems like every time I wake up, it’s because YOU are waking me up. Please just leave me alone and let me sleep, OK? I hope this time you finally understand.
Oh no, look at this. My blanket is all fucked up. See what you’ve done? I think I can fix it. All right, there’s a good spot. Everything is nice and smooth…and warm…and quiet…and…
Mmm. What? NO! It’s you again. I was asleep! Why are you ALWAYS waking me up?
