The ancient, blind Chihuahua I'm pretending to foster has made a rather Lazarus-like revival. Which is both good news and bad news. Tex now trots along on our walks like a dog half- (or more realistically, one-fifth) his age. Tex refuses to be leashed for his walks, insisting on following the rest of us by smell instead of sight. He loves to play with stuffed toys and jumps with joy when he knows he's going for a car ride.
Send me a tex message!
Unfortunately, the geriatric Chihuahua's still-intact family jewels mislead him into acting like a furry Hugh Hefner, convinced he is still a virile hunk. But without the Playboy empire, a reality TV show and a bucket full of Viagra, Tex has had miserable luck getting the Shi-Tzus to even give him the time of day. He will also attempt to mount male dogs to prove his dominance. When the six-pound wonder tried it with Corky the Corgi who, not noticing, walked away, he had the distressing appearance of a mosquito hanging on to a beach ball for dear life.
All my exes live with Texas.
That still-present testosterone has yet another downside; Tex wants to–needs to–mark everything, everywhere, all the time. He's neck-to-neck (or weenie-to-weenie) with Chance, another infamous marker. Although diapers sort of worked for Chance, I just can't bring myself to burden Tex with any more humiliation. He is proud. He is mighty. And I don't want the visual of a diapered Chihuahua humping away.
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