Little Mitzy, R.I.P.

My dear friend Shelley, with whom I rented a Victorian in San Francisco for some seven or so years of single-gal debauchery, had a childhood dog named Mitzy. In that way Shell and I have of happily talking non-stop whenever we see each other, we’ve covered a lot of conversational ground about everything from current life issues to childhood tales.

Shelley grew up in the frozen tundra of Minnesota. One day she and her mother discovered that little Mitzy, who was but a wee Chihuahua, had somehow been left outside. Being out in a Minnesota winter can be physically devastating for an adult human. Temps drop to absurd sub-zero levels, and in no time eyelids can seize up, snot can freeze in your nose… Well, you get the point.

When the little Mitz-sicle was discovered by the back door, a forlorn young Shelley snatched her up, carried her carefully inside and planted her on a heating pad, while likely weeping and assuredly whispering heartfelt apologies.

Miraculously, little Miss Mitz warmed up and bounced back. And yet Shelley never did dedicate her life to the church. Go figure.

Anyway, I’m a huge dog person. I adore the beasts. Yet I always found that story hilarious. Maybe it was more about them having a lap dog–one named Mitzy no less–that just slayed me.  That coupled with the fact that as an adult Shelley and her husband Don are so not Dog People. Somehow all those things, along with my sick sick sense of humor, have led me to razz Shelley mercilessly about Mitzy whenever anything about the cold, or small dogs, or forgetfulness, or heck even heating pads, comes up in conversation. (Yes, it’s a tough job being one of my friends.)

Well last night at dinner Mark mentioned that when he’d gone in to get Paige that morning a window in her room had been left open all night and she was–yes, you got it–a little Paige-sicle.

Thankfully Paige didn’t require the “To the heating pad, STAT!” treatment that Mitzy did, nor did Mark have to cradle her carefully to prevent possible cracking. He just closed the window, put a little hat on her, hugged her up, and moved her to a warmer part of the house.

We’re in this Indian Summer season here in the Bay Area. During the day in the sun it can get well into the 70s, but at night the temps drop 20 or more degrees. At any rate, the window staying open was decidedly my fault. I’m the one who puts Paige to sleep at night and closes her curtains. I should have checked the window then, and somehow didn’t.

And of course yesterday the little dumpling woke up with a runny nose and sneezing the cutest saddest little sneezes you ever did see. Today she’s no better. At nearly nine months old, she’s got her first cold, poor dear.

Guess who is fretfully whispering “I’m sorry” into little ears now?