copyright The Killer Chihuahua Marcia Kiser There are just some things in life that should be sacred, like no one eating the last piece of chocolate pie, or showing a movie made after 1960 on a classic movie channel, or going for a peaceful walk around the park. These are things you expect in life, so when my new neighbor moved in, I never thought she would wreak havoc with my peaceful, and solitary, existence. I should've known as soon as I saw the pet carrier. Common sense should've told me that where there's a pet carrier, there's a pet. It's natural and logical, right? It may be to you, but I didn't figure it out until a few days later when I was introduced to the pet. Although introduced isn't the right word; accosted might be better. I was walking home, having done my mile around the park, and thinking about chocolate ice cream and watching Double Indemnity on cable after a shower, when this yipping-yapping rat-thing attached itself to my leg. If you think you would have reacted differently than I, well, I'd have to see it to believe it. I think what I did was perfectly natural. I yelped. Okay, I screamed. And jumped -- sideways. All I saw was this gray-brown rat-thing attacking my leg. Maybe it was a little big for a rat, but in this city, you never know. So, I jumped sideways -- trying to stomp the thing. The law of survival, right? I made contact because it yelped and turned loose. Just as I was aiming a good kick, I heard this banshee wail, Chitaaaaaaaaa!" The little gray-brown rat-thing scampered toward my new neighbor and, before God I swear, leaped at her rather large throat. I rushed over, arms flailing wildly, trying to knock the thing down. Instead of being grateful, my neighbor screamed. And slapped me. Rapidly revising the initial impression I had from when we first met, I stared at her. "What was that for?" I admit I probably yelled, but I was still in "fight" mode from my "fight-or-flight" reaction. "You terrible, awful man. You were trying to hurt my poor little Chita." "Madam, I was attempting to rescue you from that flea-bitten, oversized rat you hold in your arms." "Chita is not a rat. And she's not flea-bitten. She's a registered Chihuahua. And a champion besides. Not to mention being extremely valuable." With that, my neighbor slapped me again. My pulse having decelerated and my breathing returning to somewhere near normal, I was able to see that, indeed, the little gray-brown rat-thing was in fact one of those utterly useless, toy-type dogs, known as a Chihuahua. I prudently took a step back. I've never struck a woman, but after an attack and two slaps, my neighbor was giving me serious provocation. "Then, you shouldn't let her run loose in the street, attacking innocent passersby. Someone else might make the same mistake as I." "She was not attacking. She was playing. Chita is very playful." My neighbor lapsed into baby-dog speak, cuddling the gray-brown rat-thing and scratching behind her ears. Chita barked and wiggled with delight. "See?" my neighbor asked triumphantly. "My little sweetums is not an aggressive dog. She's--OUCH!" Chita hit the bricks and bounced. "You were saying?" I asked politely. "Chita, that's a very bad girl. You know better than to bite Mommy. Come here, sweetums. Mommy forgives you." Chita barked and scampered behind me. Emerging between my legs, she sat on my right foot, looked up at me, and, I swear, winked. My buxom blonde neighbor finally succeeded in scooping Chita into an over-exuberant embrace and turned to go. Chita's head popped over the woman's shoulder. Her eyes were big and liquid and sad. My neighbor turned and waggled her fingers at me with enough suggestion to let me know that I could be forgiven for my earlier misjudgment. Then, both she and the dog winked. Swaying on her high heels, my amply-endowed neighbor sauntered up the steps to our converted brownstone, the dog's head bouncing up and down. I was hooked. It had been a long, long time since I'd been winked at. In my apartment, I pondered the situation, and decided to go on the offensive. ### The next morning, I rang my neighbor's doorbell holding a bag of fresh croissants from the neighborhood bakery. My neighbor was a little reserved until I explained that I had come to apologize. And to learn. "How nice. Chita and I love company." My buxom neighbor cooed. I learned that she cooed quite often. Chita yipped her greeting, jumping in the air as high as my coat pocket. She was either an extraordinary athlete or she smelled the treats I had stashed in my pocket. Frankly, I'll never know. Chita was definitely a champion. Lucy, my neighbor, gave me the grand tour. One wall of the downstairs den was covered with trophies, plaques, silver trays, blue ribbons and other assorted paraphernalia marking her a champion. Her legal name was Rolling Hills Conchita's Hero -- shortened for every day purposes to Chita. She had all her champion points, which is still a mystery to me, and she was an exhibitionist. No matter how badly she behaved outside of the ring, once inside, Chita became the Grace Kelly of the canine world -- cool, calm, unflappable, responding to the commands almost before her handler gave them. Lucy loved to show Chita and had instructed the handler to have her in every show possible. The trainer disagreed, wanting to give Chita a break from the show circuit and let her whelp a litter of pups. I agreed with Lucy. Of course, as our relationship had progressed, I had learned to always agree with Lucy. With all her money, it was hard to not agree with Lucy. But, in this case, I really thought Lucy was right. Chita was unique. I'd learned that from watching hours and hours of videos of her in the ring. I hadn't converted to the religion of the Dog enough to go to the shows, which Chita so loved, but, I heartily agreed with Lucy -- let Chita win while she could. She was young and there was plenty of time for puppies, as I learned Chihuahuas, as well as other small breeds, have a long life, comparatively speaking, of course. Also, the idea of dozens of little Chitas running around was almost more than I could personally bear. As the months passed, Lucy's and my relationship became more intimate. She was twice divorced and vowed never to marry again. I, on the other hand, was a distinguished bachelor, and quite the ladies' man in my day, if I may say so myself, and refused to give up my bachelorhood. We compromised, usually spending the night at Lucy's with Chita ensconced in her palatial carrier -- in her own room, although Chita did have her own bed, and room, in my apartment, for those occasional dog-sitting sessions Lucy asked of me. Things were progressing nicely between Lucy and I when she asked me to accompany her to her lawyer's. I was solicitous, though vague thoughts of illness floating through my head. Chita sat on my lap and nuzzled my vest while Lucy's lawyer explained. Lucy had finally decided to let Chita be bred. A litter of champion pups would substantially increase Chita's worth. I swear I heard a tiny growl from Chita at this news. Lucy, although fairly young and in good health, had become obsessed with what would happen to Chita, if she, Lucy, were to pre-decease Chita. Lucy wanted to name me Chita's guardian in her will-Lucy's, not Chita's. There would be a million-dollar trust fund established for Chita's care and a half a million-dollar bequest to me -- to compensate for the change in lifestyle, Lucy explained, somewhat apologetically. Needless to say, I was flabbergasted. A million bucks to buy kibble for a dog that barely weighed five pounds soaking wet. Ridiculous, I thought. Still, five hundred thousand was nothing to be sneezed at, so I agreed. Lucy smiled and kissed me--meaningfully. Chita barked, pranced in my lap and licked my face. ### Two weeks later, Lucy fell down the stairs in her apartment. Chita used the doggie doors, which Lucy and I both had installed for her convenience, to come get me. I sat on the floor next to Lucy, with Chita in my lap, shaking my head slowly. I lifted Chita to eye level and looked straight into her big, liquid eyes. "I told you we should wait at least two months… not two weeks." Chita howled. I held her close and spoke softly. "I hope Lucy didn't hurt you when you tripped her. I'll take you to the vet as soon as the police have gone." Chita yipped and licked my face. I had to laugh as she pranced around, dancing on her hind legs, then jumping and somersaulting in the air. She ran up the stairs and lay in the shadows on the staircase -- just as I'd taught her. I tossed her a treat. "No more of that, my little killer. Let's call the police so you can come home with me." Chita jumped into my arms, looked at me and winked.   ***** Copyright Marcia Kiser All rights reserved