Chi-Chi's Enemy

(Chi-Chi died today, from complications of diabetes. Before her death, we had the chance to become actual friends. This piece, written two years ago, describes my basic relationship with that funny little dog.)




I don't think Chi-Chi really hates me. Her feelings are both deeper and more complicated than that.


Chi-Chi is the pack member I've alluded to a few times, but not written about much . She's a 14 year old, diabetic, Chihuahua who belongs to my mom, which makes her my sister. To be sure, she hates me less than my human sister does, but since I live with Chi-Chi, she has to endure me much more.


I've lived with Chi-Chi for eight years, and she still barks at me as if I was a burglar every time she sees me. Not every time I come into the house, but every time she lays eyes on me. When I get down on the floor to try to befriend her, she backs away in terror, snarling at me, until finally she's in the back of her box.

That's right. Chi-Chi lives in a box. I know it's supposed to be called a "crate," and, technically, that's what it is, but it looks like a box to me. Chi-Chi spends at least twenty hours a day in the box. The door is never latched, or even closed, it's just where Chi-Chi prefers to be. One might think this would mean she's housebroken. One would be mistaken. 

It's not that she doesn't know we'd prefer she went outside, it's that she doesn't care. Her turds are as hard and dry as rocks, and we don't have carpets in the house, so she's easy enough to clean up after. To be clear, though; these aren't "accidents." She knows better, she has the opportunity to go outside, and she decides she'd rather not. I don't much like cleaning up after her, but I must say I admire the strength of her convictions, however ill-advised they may be.

When I approach her in her box, she is as aggressive as possible. Fortunately for me, she's a Chihuahua. How aggressive can that be? I used to worry a little, until one day I decided to just let her bite me, if she wanted. She did want to, but since I could barely feel it when she dove into the flesh of my hand, we've both come to understand that actual violence on her part is an ineffective deterrent.

Chi-Chi weighs eight pounds, but the vet feels she should weigh six. At one point, she weighed twelve pounds, and looked more like the bioengineered result of blending a pot-bellied pig with a human fetus. Then she was diagnosed with diabetes, began insulin shots and a special diet, so today she's at least recognizable as some form of canine.

My parents got Chi-Chi from a rescue organization when she was already about a year old. She was tightly bonded with my father, who passed away 2 ½ years ago. Since my father's death, Chi-Chi has become much closer to my mother, and, if anything, hates me even more. Understand, I've never yelled at Chi-Chi or disciplined her in any way. I've always been as gentle with her as if she were a glass figurine. It doesn't matter, though. Chi-Chi is the only dog I've ever met who just can't stand me.


But "hate" might not be the exactly right word. Chi-Chi will accept a treat from me, though she trembles as she does so, and I have to reach my arm way out so my hand is as far away from the rest of my body as possible. She'll muster up the bravery to pluck the treat from my hand, and then immediately retire to her box to eat it. She would prefer that I never touched her, or looked at her, but I have fed her and given her insulin shots. She is terrified when I have to do this, but when I leave her alone in her room, she eats all her dinner.

Sometimes, though, I'll see Chi-Chi looking at me when she doesn't think I notice, and she's not giving me the evil eye. I'll catch her looking at me with an expression of awe, if not reverence. If she sees me looking back, she'll usually start barking and snarling again, but it doesn't matter. I know. And she knows that I know.

Chi-Chi sees me walk, feed, and totally care for Levi, Rocky and Erica (of course she's been invited on the walks, and, naturally, she refuses). She sees me comfort them during frightening times, like thunderstorms. It's clear to her that they all love me. So what's the problem?


Honestly, I believe it's that Chi-Chi is scared to love me, for whatever reason. Maybe it's something unknown in her past, like abuse from a man who looked like me, but I don't think so. I think Chi-Chi holds back from a simple fear of loss and rejection. I think that because she's so small, when Rocky and Levi are excited around me, she's scared she might get knocked over and hurt. 

Mainly, though, I think that Chi-Chi has decided she can't love me, because she wouldn't be able to stand if I didn't love her back. Of course I would, but I think Chi-Chi is a one-person sort of dog, and that, whoever her master is, better be a one-dog kind of person. Knowing I love Levi, Erica and Rocky, I think Chi-Chi is unwilling to accept sharing my love with anyone. Therefore, Chi-Chi's reasoning goes, she has to hate me.

I'm sorry for Chi-Chi in that she can't bring herself to be my friend, but she has a relatively full life, anyway (full for someone who spends twenty hours a day in a box, that is). She has a very close bond with my mom. She loves Levi, who is clearly aware of their size disparity and is always extra gentle and careful around her. Like everyone, she loves Rocky, though you can tell even she knows he's not too bright.

But Chi-Chi's best friend in the pack, outside my mom, is the other girl, close to her size and age. Chi-Chi and Erica Kane adore each other. Erica's been long habituated to dogs, but Chi-Chi is the first one she's known who's actually smaller than she is. As far as I know, Erica is the first, and only cat, Chi-Chi has ever seen, but somehow they couldn't be tighter sisters and girlfriends. 

So all in all, me and my pack moving in on her territory was a positive thing for Chi-Chi, even if it does mean she has to live with me, her enemy. I refuse to be her enemy, though. She can bark, snarl and bite all she wants, it doesn't matter. Any friend of Rocky, Levi and Erica, is a friend of mine. 

(Note to my Hispanic and Spanish speaking readers: I know what Chi-Chis are. I do not believe my parents did when they chose that name)

© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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Cast of Characters

Over the last month, I've posted a number of stories about dogs and cats of mine, past and present, and I intend to continue such postings. While any individual piece is meant to be able to be enjoyed in isolation from the stories as a whole, it occurs to me that there are recurring "characters" in a larger narrative. Since I'm not telling these stories in any particular sequence, I have created this handy summary of who's who in the den for the reader who might become confused. 

As other dogs, or relevant people, appear, I'll update this page, so it can serve as an orientation to those attempting to understand the stories in their proper context. Some characters mentioned have not appeared yet, but certainly will. If you are new to this site, or even if you're not, press any link in a character's description to go to a story featuring that character.


Rich Sands, the dogman: The writer, originally from Park Forest, IL, then Chicago, Albuquerque, San Diego, Mexico and points in between.





Karen Sands, nee Frerichs, of Kankakee, IL: Rich's late wife. Karen passed away from breast cancer in 2002. She and Rich were college sweethearts. Karen was blind since childhood, and became a Seeing Eye dog user after she graduated from college. Karen was an attorney, specializing in criminal defense, in Albuquerque, NM, where Rich worked with her as her assistant, driver, reader, etc.

Arthur: Karen's third Seeing Eye dog. German Shepherd. Lived with Erica, raised Levi and Esmé. *


Chelsea: Mixed breed German/Australian shepherd. Member of original pack. *


Chibu: Polydactyl cat from the pack in the 90s.*


Chi-Chi: Rich's mother's present dog. 13 years old. Chihuahua.


Erica: Rich's present cat, 13 years old. Was a kitten in final days of original pack, has seen them all!



Esmé: Levi's sister, mixed-breed shepherd.*


Freddy: Rich's childhood dog, a collie-sized sheltie.*


Holden: Mixed breed, beagle, type. Small, but thick as a fireplug, physically and metaphorically. Member of original pack.*


Levi: Rich's present dog. 8 years old, mixed-breed, shepherd. 70 pounds. The best dog in the world.


Lolita: Levi's aunt, Rich and Karen's dog in the late 90s. Beautiful, black, mixed-breed shepherd. Contemporary of Vinnie, Erica, Otis and Arthur. *


Lyric: Karen's first Seeing Eye dog, leader of the original pack. German shepherd. *

Maechen: Black Chow mix. Contemporary of original pack in their old age, Erica and Vinnie.*



Mogwai: Jet black, long-haired male cat. Member of original pack.*

Otis: Rich and Karen's dog in the late 90s. Shar-Pei/lab mix. Contemporary of Lolita, Erica, Vinnie and Arthur.*


Rocky: Rich's mother's present dog (Rich's brother). 8 years old. 20 pound mixed breed.


Ruby: Spaniel-mix, contemporary of Maechen, Vinnie, contemporary of original pack in their old age. *



Vinnie: Karen's second Seeing Eye dog, black lab.*

* indicates deceased.


A Note on Photographs: I don't have any.  Literally. I believe I've posted almost all the pictures I have of any dogs mentioned. When your wife is blind, and you're a guy who doesn't think of the value of pictures, not many get taken, and those that were taken have been, by and large, lost. Except for the living dogs and cats, any pictures posted are meant to serve only as illustration, not as an actual representation of the dogs or cats in the text.


Back tomorrow with a brand new story! In the meantime, if you missed it, why not read more about Erica Kane?


© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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Levi's Issues, Part 2

Part 1


One bright November day, Levi and Esmé went out to swim and hunt. Levi came home alone, obviously traumatized. We looked for a week, but never found her body. Given where we lived, we knew she hadn't been hit by a car, or stolen. The coyotes of the area, though, could be dangerous. 

Together, Levi and Esmé were big enough to deter an out and out coyote ambush. But if a group of coyotes, in the guise of playing, attracted one of them far enough away from the other, that puppy would have been easy prey. I'm fairly certain that's what happened to Esmé, and I'm also pretty sure Levi saw it.


Levi fell into a serious depression. Arthur was heartbroken, and in order to cope with his loss, took to punishing Levi more frequently and randomly.

Ordinarily, I would have been more on top of the situation, protecting Levi from his bully of a brother, but Karen was getting increasingly sick during this time, and my attention was more on her than it was on caring for Levi. I have no doubt that's as it should have been, but the result was Levi remained in what could only be described as an abusive home environment. Arthur never hurt him to an extent where vet care was needed, but he did what he could to see that Levi's natural high spirits were repressed.

Levi recovered from losing his sister and began to be a happy puppy again. There was an old woman who lived across the way from us named Ethel, who Levi would visit every day. She'd give him cookies, and talk to him, and let him graze cherry tomatoes off her plants. Ethel was Levi's grandma, and she helped him get over the terrible loss of Esmé. Since Arthur wouldn't leave the yard, Levi could visit Ethel by himself, and have an opportunity to feel confident and good about himself.


Ethel died suddenly and unexpectedly in December. Levi went to her house day after day, but grandma never came out to play with him again. His depression returned, and despite Levi's obviously damaged state, Arthur never let up on him for a second. Nevertheless, Levi carried on. He loved Arthur, I suppose in much the same way battered wives love their abusive husbands. Erica was a great comfort to him, and he adored his mom and dad. 

Then, in January, his mom died.

Within a few months, Levi, Arthur, Erica and I began a kind of vagabond existence. We moved from the only house he ever knew into a small trailer with a friend in Taos. I worked as a waiter, and Levi and Arthur would spend the day together. When I would come home from work, Arthur was usually protecting his Frisbee, while Levi was running to the car to greet me. I can only imagine what their days alone together were like.


Then the pack moved from wild New Mexico to super civilized Scottsdale. Despite all the upheaval, Levi was becoming happy again. He'd become an adult, and there was much less corporal punishment delivered by Arthur, who Levi still seemed to worship. We started going to the dog park, where Arthur would, of course, obsess over his Frisbee, and where Levi finally had the opportunity to behave as a quasi-independent adult dog.


For about nine months, things at the park were fine. We spent so much time there that Levi began to see it as his territory. Once he determined that he was in charge of the park, he naturally assumed that keeping puppies in line was one of his responsibilities. I'm not saying Levi didn't enjoy the small cruelties he inflicted on the puppies (click for a short film of such abuse), and I'm not saying it was right. I'm just saying I understood.

Eventually, Levi started to be too bad to bring to the park anymore. This was hard on him, because he loved his large group of park friends, but I couldn't stop him from being a bully, so we stopped going. Arthur didn't care; he could fetishize the Frisbee in the back yard as well as anywhere else, but Levi's social circle was again reduced to insane Arthur. At least now he had Rocky and Chi-Chi as friends, as well as Erica, but his primary companion remained Arthur, who that good boy, Levi, still loved like crazy, despite everything. Then Arthur got bone cancer and died.

Soon after that, my father, who Levi had of course loved, had to be moved out of the house due to advanced Alzheimer's. Levi's grandpa died about a year later, though Levi had many opportunities to visit with him in the assisted living facility. When my dad couldn't remember what relationship he had with my mother or me, he never forgot how much he loved his dogs, Chi-Chi, Rocky, and now, Levi. Then grandpa was gone.


In the first year of life, Levi was abandoned by his original family, lost his sister, his "grandma," and then Karen, his mom. He was bullied by a much older, much bigger dog, who he nonetheless worshiped. He lived in four different homes. Additionally, during all this time, he had a dad who was going through hell, and wasn't in a good mental state himself. 

That Levi has survived, and turned out as well as he did, not only amazes me, but it inspires me, and helps me get through some of my own bad times. He's been my best friend, and my crutch, since Karen died, and I'm content to know that whatever road life leads us down, we'll travel it together.


So, there, Levi is not a perfect dog. I said it. Just be sure you don't say it. Nobody talks about my boy like that.




© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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Levi's Issues

As much as I love Levi, it pains me to admit that he's not a perfect dog. Like a lot of us, he has issues. Unhappily, the one issue that's ever come up with Levi that I consider serious is an occasional display of unwarranted aggression aimed at other dogs. Though he lives harmoniously with his pack, in a dog park situation he can be a  bully. Making the problem worse is Levi's ordinary choice of victim. Levi likes to beat up puppies.

He never injured a puppy, but he liked to roll them, and stand over them in a dominant manner, that demanded my immediate intervention. You'll note the use of the past tense, because I sadly can't take him to the park anymore, even though he plays entirely appropriately with almost every other dog. But puppies bring out the worst in Levi, as do German Shepherds, who he tends to react to with fear-based aggression. Being significantly smaller than a German Shepherd, this often didn't work out well for Levi.


Levi is an extremely sensitive dog, and in all other matters, he really is incredibly nice and well mannered. I haven't exactly trained him, but he'll usually obey any commands issued in a conversational tone by me, or anyone else he knows. The primary "trick" he knows is to "be a little gentleman." When he's getting overly excited or rowdy, all I have to say to him is, "Levi, you be a little gentleman now," and he settles down immediately, lying down and crossing his arms in a surprisingly dainty manner.

He's never shown an ounce of aggression towards people, and is unusually gentle with little kids and old people. He good naturedly takes abuse from Rocky, and occasionally Erica and Chi-Chi, treating the smaller members of the pack with patient indulgence.


Coming from the esteemed Abeytas breeding grounds, Levi should be a perfect dog. He has the genes for it, the nature. Like everyone else, though, Levi has been shaped by both his nature and his nurturing. Though the crying puppy at the park doesn't know or care, there is a reason Levi acts like he does. 

As with most delinquents, or psychopaths, for that matter, the problems stem from an extremely difficult childhood. That might sound like a cop-out, but when you hear Levi's story, you'll not only understand why he does the bad things he sometimes does, but you'll marvel at how he turned out to be such an overall splendid dog despite his early adversity.


Karen and I got Levi when he was about three months old. He had been weaned from his mother for a couple of weeks, and in late June of 2001, he and his sister, Esmé, had been taken by my friend Rick's irresponsible daughter and her boyfriend. On July 4, Rick asked me if I would help him clear out the trailer his daughter had abandoned. When we got there, besides a trashed trailer, we found Levi and Esmé curled up, together, scared, hungry, and ditched.


Karen seemed to be recovering from her cancer, and the only animals we had were Arthur, her German Shepherd Seeing Eye dog, and Erica, the cat. It didn't hurt that Levi and Esmé were the two cutest puppies you ever saw, but I had no real choice. They were coming home with me and joining the pack.


Karen was delighted. Levi and his sister were not only adorable, they were smarter, more sensitive and more responsive than any dogs I've ever known before. There was never a housebreaking issue, or, indeed, any issues beyond the most casual of puppy shenanigans. Erica loved them instantly, and they would play with her with the kind of unfettered joy that only puppies really know, and that maybe only cats can really appreciate.

And then there was Arthur.


Arthur was absolutely enchanted by the puppies. He put aside his Frisbee obsession enough to be instrumental in raising them, and in teaching them how to act right. The thing was, though, Arthur was in no way temperamentally qualified for the job of raising puppies. In fact, as I've written earlier, Arthur was half-crazed by this time, after having been involuntarily retired due to Karen's illness.


Initially, Arthur treated the puppies well. He clearly loved them, and just wanted to teach them right from wrong. Unfortunately, "right" and "wrong" were rather fluid concepts in Arthur's head. What might be fine on Monday would merit a harsh correction on Tuesday. Though there was little consistency to his rules, Arthur vigorously enforced them anyway. This led to Levi getting beat up, a lot, for doing things he had no way of knowing Arthur considered wrong.


By mid-August, Arthur was head-over-heels in love with Esmé. She was sweet, and coquettish, and was the first dog Arthur had ever truly loved. Despite his feelings for her, though, Arthur knew he had a duty as her teacher. When she misbehaved, when she broke one of his ever changing rules, punishment still had to be meted out. But Arthur could no longer bring himself to discipline Esmé. So whenever Esmé did something Arthur considered wrong, he would promptly punish poor Levi.

Esmé never acted with intent to get Levi in trouble. They were almost like conjoined twins, connected at the shoulder, and Esmé would no more have done anything to hurt Levi than she would have to hurt herself. They slept wrapped up in each other, and when they were awake they were almost always touching each other. 

We lived in the country, and Levi and Esmé would go out every day to swim in the arroyos and hunt rabbits. Arthur never joined them, because he was too busy guarding and worrying about his Frisbee. I'm not sure how often the hunt was a success, but a number of times, Levi would come home with a juicy rabbit leg, and deliver his tribute to King Arthur. Arthur would take it, happily, though not gratefully, and later that night would punish Levi for some imaginary infraction that Esmé committed anyway.

Imagine your crazy Uncle Arthur beating you up every time your sister did something he didn't like. This injustice began to make Levi, this perfect, joyful, puppy, a little jumpy and submissive. Meanwhile, Esmé, his shadow, enjoyed total immunity. Even Levi knew this wasn't fair. 


He was about to learn how unfair life really could be to a little yellow puppy...


Tomorrow: The Conclusion of Levi's Issues
(I promise to only infrequently write two-part stories. I don't like them, and I don't intend to regularly have cliffhangers, but this particular story was just too important and too involved)




© 2009, All Rights Reserved, Rich Sands

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Halloween Extravaganza and Special Edition Dog News!!!

Happy Halloween from the Den. Levi, Rocky, Erica and even little Chi-Chi all join me in wishing our readers a safe and happy day (and night).

Because my readers are very busy people doing important things, I've received very few pictures of dogs in costumes. Cindy L. of Manteno, IL, was kind enough to share pictures of her three kids, dressed up for a costume parade. That's Snoopy, at the top of the page. Not only does he genuinely look like a convict, but his expression seems to clearly denote that he's guilty of whatever he was charged with. Chances are he was mostly unhappy to be in a costume, but as was determined a few days ago, sometimes, very infrequently, but sometimes, it's all about us, and if dressing dogs up like truckers or ladybugs (Cindy L's Lucy, the trucker, and Sally, the ladybug. Or is she a dinosaur? An elk? Whatever, you just keep going, Cindy L. of Manteno!) tickles your fancy, than you ought to go right ahead and do it. Just not everyday or anything.

The kitty and dog, above, enchanted Christine M. of the Bay area, but, alas, they are not her creations. The Dogman feels, however, that if Christine just tried, she alone could costume half the dogs and cats in San Francisco! That's the Dogman challenge, accept it, if you dare!

Andrea K. of Southern California, sent me some delightful pictures of dogs with pumpkins carved to look like them. These are some great shots, and if anyone knows to whom credit should be attributed, I would love to do so.

And now, this weeks Dog news:

First, what we all want. More excellent pictures of pets in costumes! This guy has quite a page!

Here's a shocker. Pets are sometimes scared by Halloween. I once put a rubber monster mask on at K-Mart, and Karen's Seeing Eye Dog, Lyric, almost jumped out of her skin!

Web MD now gives pet advice. The Dogman prefers to avoid doctors and vets as much as possible, and here's a resource that can help us do that. Of course, but the Dogman and Levi are among the millions of uninsured Americans, but we remain grateful that we can at least get DYI medical care on the Internet. What a country!

Here's a story about how a service dog helps keep a kid with severe peanut allergies from dying! (The dog to the left is meant to be dressed as a peanut. Thematic continuity is all important in the Den.)

Keeping children with peanut allergies alive not enough for you? Check out this article about how dogs and cats help in the fight against breast cancer. And not just by being emotional support to patients, but by finding the damn stuff! Incredible.

Everyone knows about Snuggies, the infernal blanket with sleeves that's all over TV and Walgreen's and single ladies' shoulders. Somehow the creators of this monstrosity felt they hadn't taken enough money from the American people, so now, as many of you have already seen, they have Snuggies for dogs. Unlike a Halloween costume, this isn't cute. It's just sad.

OK, it's a little cute, but I still disapprove.

Using "America's Funniest Home Videos" as the barometer, it has been scientifically determined that dogs are funnier than cats! The Dogman feels that might be the truth, but he's never known a dog top enjoy subtle verbal humor. Dogs think it's funny when someone falls. Cats, on the other hand, virtually all enjoy Oscar Wilde, Tom Stoppard, and, indeed, any cerebral humor involving word play. But not puns. They'll scratch you up if you try a pun.

Here's a hard working dog who got too into his job. I hope worker's comp is available to this drug sniffing dog who OD'd on Meth. That can't be a pretty scene. I sure hope he's going to be alright. It's a shame he wasn't just sniffing for pot, or he'd be fine!

Finally, for those of us whose pets are getting older, the inevitable might be much farther off than we think. Read here about the world's oldest living dog!

Tomorrow, the Dogman will post his first piece of fiction, a short-short story called "The Dog and el Día de los Inocentes. I think it's some of my best work, and I hope you'll read it.

Rocky's Way

Say hello to Rocky.

Rocky is cute, but he might be the dumbest dog ever born. That doesn't matter, though, because, lack of brains aside, Rocky always tries really hard, whatever he may be doing, and he always shows a lot of character, consistently and proactively. It might not be the best character 100% of the time, but it's front and center. So while it's true that in a dog I.Q. test Rocky would be lucky to hit the low double digits, he perfectly illustrates the maxim (and if it's not already a maxim, I'm declaring it one now) that when you try hard, and you have a lot of character (of whatever nature), intelligence is largely beside the point.

Rocky is my mom’s dog, which makes him, legally speaking, my brother. Levi is my dog, so he is Rocky’s nephew, though they’re both the same age, eight. My thirteen year old cat, Erica, is Rocky’s niece, and my mother is known as “Grandma” to Levi and Erica, and as “Mom” to Rocky and Chi-Chi, the Chihuahua, who I will write about some other day. I assure you this sounds far more confusing than it actually is.

Continued