a dedication to the chihuahua in my building

Every so often, my inner Andy Rooney comes out and I complain about people with little dogs. You know the ones — the dogs that are more properly characterized as accessories, as opposed to 'dogs.' (Sidebar: not all little dogs are evil. Nor are all people with little dogs evil. But the fact remains that there are lots of folks who buy a dog when they should just buy a purse instead.)

Anyhow, back to the dogs: it doesn't help that they're often yappy and high-strung. Take, for example, the chihuahua who lives in my building. It spends much of its life whimpering in a high-pitched tone. It turns out I'm not alone in despising the loathsome creatures ... while at the Hillcrest Farmer's Market this Sunday, Leo and I overheard this conversation:

Old, blatantly gay man to his equally old, blatantly gay partner: "God, can't he read the sign?! It says 'no dogs.'"
Partner (in an absentminded tone): "Except for service dogs."
Old, blatantly gay man: "C'mon. That vermin is no service dog."

... which brings me back to the chihuahua in my building. It's 11:52 p.m. and I'm ready to go to bed. But I don't dare open my windows again for fear that I'll hear that varmit. No wonder David Berkowitz went on a rampage.