I think chihuahuas get a really raw deal. I mean; yeah, some of them are miniature demon-spawn, but can you blame them? People stuff them into ridiculous outfits and carry them around in designer purses like living accessories. Is it any wonder they wake up one morning and decide, “Okay, today I choose violence!”
My chihuahua, Floki (pronounced Flow-Key), is the exception.
First of all, he doesn’t even know he’s a chihuahua. He spent his formative years with Samantha, our English Bulldog. Until she passed several years ago, Floki had never even seen another creature of his own breed. Honestly, he doesn’t even look the part. His ears flop over in a permanent bulldog-style fold instead of sticking up like Baby Yoda. He’s also got a bulldog’s broad chest and bowed front legs. If it weren’t for the pointed nose and long fur, I’d swear he was Samantha’s sawed-off second cousin. He inherited her lazy streak, though, thankfully, not the snoring.
The two of them used to spend their days napping on the front porch. It was a peaceful existence…until the Summer of the Squirrels.
I should’ve seen it coming. Our yard is a “Squirrel Smorgasbord” of hickory and oak trees, and three Gray Squirrels soon took up residence. They were weapons-grade jerks. Usually, Floki followed the Bulldog Code: don’t expend calories unless absolutely necessary. But these three hairy hoodlums wouldn’t leave him alone.
They’d sneak down and “bark” at him while he was snoozing in a sunbeam. Floki would try to ignore it: bulldogs are far too dignified for such nonsense, but the fluffy-tailed tree rats would skulk closer and closer until he just couldn’t resist. He’d rocket off the porch as fast as those stubby legs could muster, chasing them in circles around the bottom of the trees and cussing them out in his high-pitched, squeak-toy bark.
The squirrels would climb just out of reach, bark back…and wait. Floki soon got fed up with the shenanigans and would retreat to the porch to catch his breath. The squirrels then came right back down to start the whole ordeal over again. This went on all… flippin’… summer.
Until the day Floki finally had enough.
I was putzing around inside while Samantha was drooling on the living room armchair. Outside, Floki was waging war on the Squirrel Punks. Suddenly, the squeak-toy bark turned into an eardrum-shattering shriek. I hauled buns to the front yard, heart in my throat.
There was Floki, back to me, standing perfectly still. Sticking out of either side of his mouth were the head and tail of one of his nut-gobbling nemeses.
I panicked. All I could imagine were teeth, blood and vet bills. I started shouting, and Floki, undeniably pleased with himself, dropped the squirrel and pranced away. I rushed over to the “victim” lying motionless in the grass. Now, I hate to see an animal hurt, but let’s be real: this little snot-rag kind of had it coming.
Just as I got close, the faker sprang to its feet, screeched at me just for spite, and made a mad dash for the trees.
The squirrels left Floki alone for the rest of the year. Though, if you ask me, I think they’re still holding a grudge. Every now and then, an errant hickory nut “accidentally” bounces suspiciously close to Floki’s head.
