Chihuahuas are Better than Facelifts
Winner of the 2009 Pet Sitters International Humor Award
for best humor writing about dogs in all media!
Chihuahuas are Better than Facelifts ~ An ongoing chick-lit saga by Teri Wilson featured regularly in Chihuahua Connection Magazine
What's a trophy wife to do when she hits middle age and the nest is empty?
When Nicole realizes she'll never find meaning in a life filled with endless trips to the mall and the day spa, she has a decision to make. Should she get a facelift... or a dog?
Together maybe Nicole and her rescued Chihuahua Prada can make a difference in the world. And, naturally, they'll do it in high fashion style.
Order Chihuahua Connection Magazine featuring Chihuahuas are Better than Facelifts.
Excerpt from Chihuahuas are Better than Facelifts Part 2: Prada has an Exceptionally Good Hair Day:
“Oh, Nicole. I can’t believe you’re a real working woman now,” my dear friend Susan gushed when I walk into the bistro for our regular weekly lunch. I wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about my new job because her expression was blank, completely undecipherable. Probably a result of the Botox. My other friend, Lynette, nodded in agreement.
“I know. Neither can I. It’s just so exciting.” I waved my hand in front of my eyes so I wouldn’t get teary and ruin my makeup. The eye shadow was Chanel, after all. “It’s only a volunteer position, but I love it. I feel like I’m really making a difference in the world.”
It had been three days since I started working at the animal shelter where I adopted my new dog, Prada. And I must say, it had been the best three days of my life. And that’s really saying something because I hadn’t been shopping on any of those three days. Working with the animals and helping them find their forever homes was so rewarding. I felt as though I had finally found my purpose.
“Girls, can we switch to a table outside on the patio? I brought Prada with me.” I nodded my head toward the pink polka-dotted bag on my shoulder. Inside, Prada was curled up in a tight little ball.
“You brought the dog? Here?” This time some expression managed to sneak its way onto Susan’s face. It didn’t look happy.
“Of course. I take her everywhere. She was rescued from a puppy mill, the poor thing. She needs socialization, so she goes with me wherever I go.”
“Okay, sure. We can’t wait to see her.” Lynette, always the peacemaker, gathered up her things and Susan and I followed her to an outdoor table.
Once we were settled, I cradled Prada’s pink dog carrier in my lap and cooed inside, “Prada, it’s your first weekly girls’ lunch. Are you ready for your debut?”
“Hurry Nicole. I can’t wait to hold her.” Lynette reached her arms toward me as I lifted Prada from her little nest inside the bag.
I beamed with pride. “Here she is. Girls, this is Prada.”
Lynette and Susan looked at Prada, their faces blank. This time it wasn’t the Botox.
“She’s, uh, cute…” Lynette made an attempt to compliment my dog. I noticed she was no longer reaching for Prada.
“Nicole, that has to be the ugliest dog in the entire world.” Susan blinked one eye. She wasn’t winking. Her eye has been that way ever since the facelift.
“Susan! That’s a terrible thing to say,” Lynette scolded. “I’m sure she’s very sweet.”
Lynette reached out once again toward Prada. To my mortification, Prada lifted her lip and snarled. It was a tiny, quiet little snarl. But still.
“I’m so sorry, Lynette. Prada was rescued from a terrible situation in a puppy mill. She’s still getting accustomed to people and living in the real world. She only started liking me a few days ago.”
“It’s okay. Maybe she’ll let me feed her a little treat.” Lynette tore a tiny, nibble-sized morsel off the bread in the center of the table and offered it to Prada with an open palm. To my great relief, Prada sniffed it warily and then picked at it while Lynette gently stroked her little domed head.
Lynette smiled and fussed over Prada, but Susan hadn’t been won over. “She’s still ugly.”
“Susan, honestly. Be nice.” Lynette swatted at her with a napkin.
“You know, there are a lot more important things in life than looks.” I looked straight at Susan and lifted my eyebrow pointedly for effect. I knew for a fact that since her facelift, she couldn’t do the same.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I was just expecting something different. You know, like that cute little Chihuahua Britney Spears used to have.”
“You mean Bitbit,” Lynette chimed in.
“Yes.”
Then we had a brief moment of silence, out of respect for Bitbit’s exquisite bone structure. That Bitbit was a stunner.
