I am pretty sure that Chihuahua owners pioneered the concept of dressing pets like people. Today as a result, it’s rare to spot one running around in the nude. And it’s perhaps even more difficult to keep from flinching and cringing in disgust when you do.
“Don’t stare at the poor little doggie, Dear. We’re in the mist of a deep global economic crisis. I’m sure his mommy will purchase him a jewel-encrusted shrug as soon as she is able. Please stop crying.”
Now, I will give the Chihuahuas this: Despite the pearl-wearing, purse-riding stereotypes, you won’t find a more creative breed in terms of wardrobe versatility. Show me another dog that can pull off a Kimono one day and Scarlett O’Hara the next. Or, effortlessly flow a look from boardroom to bar with the simple supplement of a low-slung chain belt or an embellished newsboy cap.
A couple of years ago, I had the pleasure of visiting the amazing country of Austria. Long-story-short, my husband was working on the branding for a hotel renovation in Bad Ischl. We stayed as guests of the new owners, and their visiting family, in the very old, very empty hotel for several nights in the mist of the construction and renovation. Ibbie, the owner’s mother, was visiting from Miami. She was a small and wonderful woman of Nicaraguan decent who spoke in a thick intoxicating accent and doled out extremely generous wine pours—I loved her very much. Her sidekick was a little black Chihuahua named Batman—him, I was not in love with. Unlike his sexy and mysterious namesake, this Batman did not zoom around in a phallic car or flaunt a sculpted set of vinyl abs. He instead wielded his powers through a series of pelting yelps, and unapologetic, squatting-like-a-girl, puddle-making, whenever and wherever he felt like it.
Also dissimilar to the actual Batman, this little guy had a seemingly endless variety of wardrobe options at his disposal. In the evening he’d likely sport a cashmere blend v-neck pullover, or a fur-lined satin onesie in cream, jade, or deep purple. Closer to bedtime he could be spotted in one of his many silken smoking jackets which fastened in the front with a double-breasted set of snaps. However, his daytime go-to rarely varied. It was, without fail, a faded and tattered yellow polyester cape with a screen-printed batwing emblem. I imagine he’d worn the thing for years letting its perceived power slowly seep into his little soul, inflating his ego to Herculean proportions.
Throughout our stay it was Batman’s first self-appointed mission to wake us about an hour or so before sunrise. He accomplished this by poking his pencil snout sideways through the narrow gap between the door and the floor—issuing a terrible terrorist attack of a wake-up call. On the first day when I flung open the door to shoo him away, my bare heel slipped in the poo present he’d left for us. Ironically the only thing that prevented my skull from cracking open and spilling its contents onto the marble floor was, yes, its semi-soft landing in another disproportionately sized pile of poo.
When it was time to leave work in Bad Ischl and spend a few vacation days in Salzburg, Ibbie’s husband, Pedro, offered to drive us. We rode in the backseat, because apparently Batman had called shotgun. On this particular day, perhaps as a salutation to our departure, Batman hung up his day-cape and opted for a leather sleeveless vest that belted at the waist and had a side pocket carrying a perfectly pointed tissue.
It was misty that day, and Pedro had set the windshield wipers on the rain-sensor mode. The unpredictable rhythm apparently bothered Batman very much. So, with his hind needle nails digging into the leather seat and his tiny front bird claws splayed out on the dash, he barked piercingly and without abandon, while Pedro screamed the same Spanish scold at him over and over and over—to no avail—for sixty six solid minutes. (I am pretty sure I cried a little.)
When we finally arrived at our new hotel, Batman dove from the car to bid us a proper adieu with one last going-away present. He impressively landed it with perfect precision on the pointy tip of my boot, right there on the cobblestone sidewalk of the Old City. Pedro reached down, pulled the tissue from Batman’s pocket, picked the present off my boot, and then hugged us and waved goodbye with the tissue wad still in hand.
That was the last I ever saw of the little Dark Knight. And two full years later, I still cannot see a black Chihuahua without the very strong urge to slump into the shadows Joker-style and slather on repeated circles of bright red lipstick. But, if I did learn anything from the little Batman it was this: People (or things dressed as such) who act like total jackasses are oddly enough more likely to get away with such behavior if they wear interesting clothes and go by a cool name like Batman. And if you don’t believe me, just go to youtube and type in the words Christian Bale.
