I Tried To Surprise You, I Crept Up Behind You With A Homeless Chihuahua

I think it's time to talk about Hugo.





Hugito. Hugolito. Hug-o. Huggy Bear. Burrito. Boogie Monster. Boogie. Boog. Booger. Boogito. Burrito. Dorito. Bubba Bear. Bubba. Mister Sighs A Lot. Mister Quivers. Scraggle Frockstar. Scraggle. Yoda. Old Man. Sweet Boy. Baldy. Sleepy. Boo. Bastard. Poopy.

Hugo has led a very troubled life. His origins aren't completely known. He might be full chihuahua, he might not. The theory is that his daddy was a Pug who denied Hugo as his son, as he has a curly tail (not a chihuahua feature) and a tendency to attack any Pug he sees. He was about two years old (according to medical evidence assessed by the vet) when my sister, Jenna, adopted him from a chihuahua rescue center in Seattle. Chihuahuas are some of the most commonly abandoned/abused dogs because they are incredibly trendy, but also extremely needy. They are not outdoor dogs and they need a lot of attention or they will pee and poop all over the house. Most people buy them on a whim, with no intention of caring for them. Enter: Hugo, formerly "Paco" before Jenna got to him.


Jenna and Hugo's first holiday together, Halloween. Jenna as "Little Miss Sunshine" and Hugo as a Giant Guinea-Bee ala South Park

When Jenna got Hugo, she wast post-relationship and looking for a companion. I made fun of her mercilessly for choosing, in my early opinion, the shittiest little breed of dog ever. However, when she told me that Hugo had been abused, it definitely made him more endearing, but I was skeptical of his breed in general.

Hugo was raised outdoors with rottweilers, kicked, and starved. This trouble caused him to bald and grey early, to the point where many think he is much older than the four years old that he is today.

But with Jenna, Hugo became happy and comfortable. She took him everywhere.

Jenna's boyfriend hauling Hugo up a mountain


My sister and I have always been close, so after many visits to her place I soon found myself liking Hugo ALMOST as much as she did. But I still found her constant doting and abundance of nicknames to be pretty ridiculous.

That was until he lived with me. Jenna went to Korea to teach English and make money, and Hugo couldn't go with. Hugo is a lover, he attaches himself to one person (previously Jenna) and becomes so devoted to them, that it is hard not to give back the same loyalty. Suddenly, I was Jenna. Plurking on a daily basis pictures or updates, spending 1/3 of all Skype conversations with Jenna talking about him, smiling instantly when I return home to him. He sleeps in the bed, under the covers, and just generally loves me.







Hugo is full of quirks, most of which are irreversible as he is too old for much training and has a brain the size of a lime. Here are a few:

~Begging - Hugo is so small that it is easy for him to snake under your arm or onto your lap while you are eating. On a camping trip, Jenna had to enforce drastic measures to keep him away.


~Aggressiveness - Hugo is not a mean dog by any means. He rarely barks and doesn't even really play with other dogs let alone fight them (except Pugs). However, he has some strange issue with boys getting too close to women. I don't know if he was around domestic abuse in a past life, but he won't lurch at girls for acting affectionately, just boys. He will growl and bite at them, even Jenna's boyfriend Nick, who was around since virtually the beginning of Hugo's life with her, still gets attacked when he goes in for a hug.


~Throaty Noises - Hugo is a chihuahua, and chihuahua's have weak trachea's. This causes Hugo to emit the strangest noises when he sleeps, yawns, or chokes. I don't honestly even know what to compare the noise to, because it is unlike anything I've ever heard. The face he makes is priceless too. Observe.


~Disinterest in Dogs - Hugo loves to play with me. Whenever I give him a treat, he throws it on the ground and gets in play stance until I abide. Sometimes he'll nip at my nose as if to say "play with me." However, he has almost no interest in playing with dogs.



~Struggles in Water - We grew up on Lake Chelan, we boat, and we like our dogs to swim. Hugo swims, about a foot off the surface of the water. He also HATES baths and refuses to pee in the rain.


~Dancing - Hugo can stand on his hind legs for an amazing amount of time. He does it for treats, or attention, and it is adorable.


~Hiding Stuff - Hugo needs to be on "Hoarders." When I give him a treat, he buries it in blankets, as he has no dirt to bury it in. Hugo also does this thing, possibly the funniest of all, where he lodges his treat in his throat so that I can't see it, and tries to hide it secretively. The problem is that he is unhappy about the bone halfway down his throat, so he whines the entire time he looks for an acceptable spot. It is the most ridiculous thing EVER. I have no pictures of it, so here is a generally adorable picture of Hugo.


I never thought I would be one of those people with a small dog, but I accept my role as caretaker until Jenna returns from her Korean Adventure. I love Hugo, and he loves me, and I don't care if I look like Paris Hilton.

It's Not That It's My Fault It's Just My Style

I am on a mission to discover my writing style.It started on Plurk, as many of my musings do, and now I feel like I can't go on studying for finals without at least starting this project. Let's start at the beginning.

When I was about 10, I started writing poetry.
I thought it was pretty good, as my parents and friends assured me it was, but I was also ten.

I recently read through some of my old poetry on Authors Den, a social network for writers that I had joined at a young age. Here is one I found from 2002 (I was twelve).

Believe
by Kacie Riann
Friday, August 02, 2002

If you don’t believe in miracles,
Then you don’t believe in dreams.
Because each and every dream you have,
Is more magical than it seems.

If you don’t believe in fairy tales,
Than you don’t believe in creativity.
Because it takes a unique mind,
To conjure up a fantasy.

If you don’t believe in many things,
Open up your mind a little,
Because there is nothing greater,
Than dreaming about the impossible.

Yes, for a child I had the basic idea of rhyme and some semblance of flow and such, but this isn't going to win an award or be picked apart by high school English classes for years to come. I started posting poetry in my den on a fairly regular basis for the next few years, but then there is a huge gap until I was about 18. I still try to post poetry, but now I am older and a harsher critic on myself. I don't feel the same kind of pride in my poetry that I used to, and usually end up throwing it out all together. One of my most recent poems in my den is:

Old Man
by Kacie Riann
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Not rated by the Author.

Your face has changed.
The wrinkles I expected, but the fading smile and dimmed eyes, I wasn't prepared for those.

You've given up.
Your life-savings is spent, and so are you, no longer concerned with saving your own life.

Your livelihood is gone.
Family Christmas, cruises to exotic locations, and visits with the grandkids no longer excite you.

You're still alive.
But you are acting like you have nothing to live for anymore, you wish you were dead.

Old man.
I never thought you'd be an old man.
You were always the fun one.
Now you're just a shell.

I don't really know if my style has changed much, maybe just matured. There was that whole poetry section in Sophomore Honors English when I finally put names like "metaphor" and "alliteration" on devices I had been using all along. Maybe calling awareness to them helped me to improve, but in no way do I feel as though my 10 year old talents have followed me into adulthood. I am mediocre. I write poetry now as a personal hobby or therapy, but certainly not to show it off.

If you want to read some embarrassing stuff, many of my poems are posted on authorsden.com/kacispoetry



But how can my style of writing be explored in poetry? Poetry stands alone, it is it's own thing. I have a style there, and parts of it might be visible elsewhere, but I need to look into other things. I would say that essays probably don't count at all. Scholarly essays come out of me like word vomit, I have no style, no voice. I am just a fact machine.

The first time I ever wrote a short story, it was a memoir of a family trip. This was the very first example I can find of my "writing style." I was 12 when I wrote this, so again, I have matured, but this will give you an idea of my early style.

Here is a link: http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewshortstory.asp?AuthorID=9362&id=7234

Here is an excerpt:
Jenna and I both saw it, but had no clue what it was, a bright blue fish? No, our eyes were playing tricks on us. But as soon as we realized there was actually was something there, dad had run over it. Instantly the boat died. Dad turned the key over and over but no enchilada. It was the first time I'd ever heard him cuss. I should have taken another Dramamine because I was so sick I was going to puke.
We were trying to check out our motor, and we pulled the blue thing out of the propellor. We felt really stupid, the thing that stopped our boat was not a piece of driftwood, or a rock, or anything like that. Nope, it was a bright blue rubbermaid lid. Tupperware caused our boat to die.

My next attempt at a short story was much better:
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewshortstory.asp?AuthorID=9362&id=33614

"Every Thursday at three I would travel about three blocks from my office to visit Doug. I would go through screening and have my keys, belt, money clip, and other potentially dangerous objects held until I returned. I would enter Doug’s room and he would insist I lay down on his bed as he sat in a chair and asked me questions. Each Thursday at three I would honestly explain my week to Douglas. Each time I gave him a detail of my life he would shake his head as if in shame and take notes. It was liberating to have someone listen to me for a change, but his reactions always made me feel tense.
After my visits I had to constantly remind myself that he was the crazy one, and his psychoanalyzing me was a twisted form of revenge. I would go home from Montgomery and surround myself with the freedoms of a normal person. I would indulge on sweet and fatty foods, watch endless hours of television, and send e-mails to coworkers and friends on my computer. Each liberty of mental health made me feel a little saner. But there was always a strange dizzy feeling I got when I thought about my visits to Doug. It made me ill. "

I think the most honest example of my writing style, however, can be found on this blog. My Thought Experiments for Parasites were honest to the point of vulnerability, and include narratives as well as probing questions. The blogs I post are closest to the way I speak, pre-edited and natural.

I guess, I didn't really accomplish my goal as much as throw examples at myself, but my style exists. I will continue to write as such, and I will continue to grow and change. I just hope that my journey into the Creative Writing major doesn't change me so that I don't recognize myself.

In 2 weeks, I will take my first Creative Writing Course, a class on Fiction. I guess the mission continues. I hope to eventually be able to put a few solid traits on to my style, nothing too limiting, but self-recognition is a big deal to me.

I want to perfect my writing in the context of myself.