Recently I’ve found that people are no longer interested in me.
It’s understandable, really. I’m not a shoe-sized, chocolate-colored, shark-jawed whirligig with an expression like a question mark dry humping a squeal. My dog has usurped the amount of attention I used to be allotted. I’m merely her accessory. It makes sense, really.
While my former dog, Snack, was a hefty, fifteen pound Pomeranian mix with a regal face and haughty demeanor, Booger is a four pound mostly Chihuahua, if you round up. She bears a closer resemblance to a bat than a dog. (Case and point.)
Snack eclipsed all other dogs by quietly and politely demanding that you pay her some respect (or at least give her all of your food) with a stare that seemed to say, “I know what you did last summer.” By contrast, Booger is like a crazy diamond, your attention hits her and it splinters off into a million reflections of affection, making you think that, hey, two of these would be better than one. At least that’s what I wind up thinking. And, apparently, this is a common thought of the new Chihuahua(ish) owner. It’s why the term “Chihuahuaholic” actually exists.
Because I’m frequently asked what she is – not simply as a breed, but as a mammal – I’ve had to search for answers. When trying to figure out if some of Booger’s traits are standard or signs of some serious puppy psychological problems, I searched the annals of small dog science. Here’s the rundown if you’re troubleshooting your own tiny model of nondescript, but kinda-sorta Chihuahua:
(Take note: most Chihuahua-enthusiast sites refer to the breed as “Chi”s. Since I have family in Chicago, and because I think that adoringly abbreviating the name of a dog breed is one of the first steps towards confirming a future as a spinster, I’m going to stick to typing out the whole enchihuahua.)
First, some history. Nobody can say with one-hundred-percent certainty where the bite-sized breed came from, or confirm what their lineage is, but one theory is that they’re descendants of the Techihi, which was a companion dog common to the Toltec civilization in Mexico. The only problem with this rumor is that there are no records available prior to the 9th century, and it’s more likely that earlier Chihuahua predecessors were the dogs of the Mayans. Puppy remains were found among the Pyramids of the Cholula around 1530, which were discovered before the ruins of the Chichen Itza on the Yucatan Peninsula. Other historians believe that they came from Malta, ‘cause small dogs that look like Chihuahuas are in old paintings, like one that’s in the fresco of the Sistine Chapel from around 1481. (If you want to check it out, it’s part of the Trials of Moses, there’s a little boy holding a small dog that does look curiously similar to a Chihuahua.)
If you decide to delve even further into earlier, murkier dog history, there are some who claim that the Aztecs used Chihuahuas as props in marriages, births, and funeral rites, with careful breeding and feeding regimens where dogs were “fattened on maize, and then sold in the local dog markets, tied in bundles according to type.” Other than buying Chihuahuas by the bushel, Aztecs were thought to use the little dogs in sacrificial ceremonies, where the dogs would be eaten, their meat placed under turkey in order to make it look like there was more bird than there actually was. (This might be known in history as the original prudent catering trick.) Chihuahua meat supposedly looks and tastes like turkey. No word if it causes a tryptophan-nap.
Aztec and Toltec tribes were also rumored to use Chihuahuas as heating pads. Really.
So separate from being eaten and used in folk medicine, religious ceremonies, and sold in bunches like bananas, what about the modern Chihuahua? Well, there are a few things that you should know, according to the Internet, but I can attest that these pointers don’t pertain to every pooch. Still, they’re worth citing, in case you’re in the market (haha) for a Chihuahua. Established Chihuahuaholics can support or deny these claims.
Chihuahuas burrow, so be careful when you sit down. Because they feel comfortable in a den, they have a tendency to scratch, dig, and finally wedge themselves underneath blankets and pillows, so you might not see them if they have access to the couch. They’re like tiny Bob Villas when it comes to building a bed. You don’t want to crush your dog, so be careful. Seriously, this warning is on nearly every site, even though I couldn’t find any stories of Chihuahuas being broken by Bon-Bon eating owners plopping down in front of Dr. Phil. I can say that, personally, I’ve only stepped on Booger once – when I got out of the shower and she was laying on my bathmat – but other than that we’ve been pretty good about not breaking one another’s necks. She no longer ventures into the bathroom.
Out of all the breeds of dog, Chihuahuas have the biggest brains…when you compare them to the size of their bodies. They have a brachycephalic skull that’s often called either “apple” or “deer” shaped, meaning that they have a broad, short head.
Another interesting trait at the top of the Chihuahua is what I’ve been referring to as “the molera issue.”
Roughly a month into owning Booger, we were hanging out on the couch. She was laying in my lap and I looked down. Usually when someone looks at the top of someone else’s skull, or, let’s say, the skull of a pet, they expect it to be solid. Instead, I distinctly saw a pulse, as in, the top of Booger’s head was throbbing. I touched it gingerly. It was soft. While a squishable skull made for a legitimate explanation for some of her behavior, I was still concerned, so I took her to the Hot Vet.
“Why does my dog’s head feel like a plum that’s been dropped on the edge of a saw-horse?” I asked. He explained that Chihuahuas have a very particular type of skull. Much like how human infants have a “soft spot” after they’re born, Chihuahuas have a soft spot, too. Both the human and the dog dome delicacy are caused by plates of bone in the skull not fusing together fully. In humans this is referred to as a fontanelle, with Chihuahuas it’s called a molera. They’re the only dog breed to be born with an incomplete skull, and therefore they need to be treated, well, like they have a hole in their heads. ‘Cause they do. Which means, in my case, don’t challenge her with complex commands and don’t drop her from a great height.
Another weird thing about the ‘huahua is that they shake. Even though they’re perfectly healthy, they’ll tremble like they’ve swallowed a shipment of bullet vibrators. This could be because the dog is cold or, in its dented head, it’s experiencing the sort of excitement over a Snausage that us humanoids associate with winning an Oscar or getting hitched. It could also be hypoglycemia, which is a fancy word for a dip in blood sugar. This often occurs in smaller breeds, as well as preteen-gymnasts. Some owners will suggest Karo syrup as a quick, sweet fix, but be careful: relying on straight-saccharine shots to up your dogs glucose level could lead to diabetes, and nobody wants a diabetic dog. Your best bet for beating the shakes is to invest in a sweater and have healthy treats on hand. And be patient. I’m lucky that Booger is mainly an indoor dog and only shakes in the waiting room of Hot Vet’s office, where I, too, tremble with anticipation, albeit for different reasons. (He’s 6’3” with glasses. I would easily lie on my back and show him my belly to assert his dominance.)
Booger has a coat. Not just her brown half-fur, half-hair skin suit that I wash once a week with puppy shampoo and “cream rinse,” but an actual coat, with a hood. When I put her in it, she wriggles out. The analysis of these Chihuahua “experts,” who regularly say that these little dogs actually enjoy donning little jackets and sweaters, is categorically wrong in our case. But that’s just one of the ways that Booger can’t be classified as a full-blown Chihuahua.
Chihuahuas are supposedly fiercely loyal and bond intensely with their owners, to the point that they can and will attack if they think their owner is being threatened. I can say with a hefty degree of certainty that even if a pack of assailants broke into my apartment and started beating me with a tube sock filled with ball-bearings, my dog wouldn’t look up from her rawhide chew.
Chihuahuas are also considered “clannish” and don’t like other breeds, to the point that they’re often a little cunty with other dogs. In my experience this hasn’t been the case. Booger’s just…disinterested. I believe that, in the world of dog-psychology, this has to be due to her owner, as Snack was very much the same. Neither dog could give a fuck about other specimen of the same species, and neither can their mom.
Some say that Chihuahuas are “naturally cautious” and not spontaneous at all. Wrong. My dog is so ballsy, I half expect to find a pair of fuzzy testicles the size of clementines hanging between her legs. Loud noises? Not a problem. Falling off of a piece of furniture? No biggie. Blood, screaming, rapid pounding of her owner against another object or person? Allow me to explore and conclude that it’s nothing with a dog-sized shrug. Baths and the resulting attack of the hairdryer were the somewhat petrifying occurrences that her predecessor viewed as life-threatening events that had to literally be clawed away from. Booger seems to view personal hygiene simply as an annoyance, as opposed to the dog-version of Die Hard. Really, she’s just not one of those yippy, tentative toy dogs. She’s just a small bitch with the sort of brash, idiotic fearlessness hopefully displayed by her owner as well.
Others claim that Chihuahuas suck at fetch, that they’re not natural retrievers. This is also untrue in my house. The very first thing that Booger did to prove she wasn’t just a blinking Beanie Baby was to run and get a toy I accidentally kicked across the room. She brought it back like the best Beagle or Boxer ganking some game shot from the sky.
All of this is to say, my Chihuahua ain’t typical. If it were simply up to me, observations about this once-sacred southern breed include the fact that they seem to like Rammstein, they can operate trackpads with their paws and touchscreens with their noses, they have exceptionally (creepy) long tongues, and they prefer the green variety of kombucha. Studies are in the works to determine if these are characteristics associated with nearly-extinct varieties of bat.
