Catasterous Disastrophy

As I have said in the past, I have a tendency to get into some precarious spots with my wheelchair. Sometimes the precarious positions are my own doing like getting stuck in a revolving door (Warning: revolving doors are not suitable for wheelchairs.) Then there are times when something will happen and I get in trouble through no fault of my own.

I use two tables in an upside down L-shape as my desk. My laptop is on the shorter part of the L, and two computers and scanners are on my right on the longer part of the L. The other day I was working late. I was the only one in my office and the library area. I was attempting to put stats in the computer. I reached for a pile of papers from the table to my right (the button I drive my chair with is also on my right). The papers were heavier than I expected, or I am more crippled than I thought, and I dropped the pile of papers on my button with which I drive my chair.Man, I can't believe I can't even lift a stack of papers with one hand anymore. The weight of the papers FLUNG my chair forward. My chair proceeded to ram into the table in front of me.Oh, shit, I know what is going to happen. The force of the forward movement pushed my chair under the table. Yep, I knew that was going to happen.

My wheelchair driving button was under the table, and the weight of the table was pushing the button. The table was "driving" my wheelchair. The table would push the button forward, the table and I would fly forward and hit the bookshelf in front of my "desk".I can't reach the turn off button. Oh, I hope I don't knock over any bookshelves. If I do, that is going to hurt. The force of the impact would cause the table to push my button in reverse, and the table and I would zoom backwards until I rammed into something else and the force of that impact would cause the table and I to move forward again. Eventually, this has got to stop.

The table continued to drive me around my office . . .back and forth . . . . back and forth . . . back and forth. Everything that was on my "desk" had now been scattered all over my office floor. This is not going to stop! It looked as if an Office Depot cloud had rained in my office. Colorful office supplies were strewn across my floor like a field of daisies. I can't reach my turn off button on the wheelchair because as my wheelchair is being driven helter skelter around the office, and my body is being flung helter skelter. The office phone is a daisy in the corner that I am unable to pick. I am going to fall out of my wheelchair. It is going to hurt. I'm not wearing any underwear. The paramedics are going to see my ass!

I am fortunate that I carry a mobile phone on my person. As a matter of fact, I keep it in my bra. I actually keep it tuck in my cleavage which starts at my chin so I am able to pack quite a few items there. I knew these big boobs were good for something! Prior to this experience the school maintenance man, Al, has given me his mobile number and said, "If you ever need anything just call." As the table is still driving me all over the office (thank, God, it is small), and I am calling Al. He doesn't answer.Shit, Al! I remember seeing the principal, Norma, talking with someone in her office, so I call her. She doesn't answer. Shit, Norma! I call my "sistah", Janet, she answers, I yell help, emergency. Janet's room is on the other side of the campus, so I know it will take some time to get to my office. Unknown to me, Janet thinks that something has come undone from my chair, so she doesn't sprint across the campus. I remember seeing someone sitting near the phone in the front office, so I call that number. An office assistant, Maria, answers, and I explain that I need help right away, and she replies, "Okay, I will be there in a minute." I don't have a minute! Maria hears the distress in my voice and she tells the assistant principal, Sienna, that it sounds like I am crying. They proceed to saunter through the office, and then through the teachers' lounge, and then through the library. Maria sees what is happening to me and starts to run; Sienna sees Maria start to sprint, so in turn she begins to sprint across the library. It's about time!

As Sienna reaches my office and sees me ramming the table into the bookshelf she says, "What are you doing?" as if I have control of the situation. What the hell do you think I am doing? Sienna, eventually, surmises the calamity and lifts the table off of my chair and yells, "Pull her out! Pull her out!" Pull me out! Pull me out!

My chair cannot be moved by a human when it is in wheelchair drive, as poor Maria is trying to pull my chair out from under the table; the table "drives" me backward and has pinned her against another table and she is squeaking, "I can't move the chair."

The table is getting heavy and Sienna is starting to lose her grip so she is shouting, "Maria, go get Al!" Yea, because we have time for Maria to go find Al.

Maria is squeaking like a trapped mouse, "I can't move."

As Sienna is shouting, "Go get Al," Janet is entering the library. It's about time! She hears the shouting and comes running. Janet helps Sienna hold up the table, I finally position my body so I can reach my button to drive and I drive my chair out from under the table.

Sienna, Maria, and Janet ask in unison, "How did this happen?" Well, I was thinking what stupid predicament can I get myself into today, and this is all I could think of on such short notice.

I reply, "Well . . . . I was trying to . . .and then I . . . and then it . . . and then, and then, and then as the BFG would say, 'It was a redunculous catasterous disastrophy!"*
It is just too hard to explain.

They looked at me with a puzzled look and started to pick my Office Depot daisies.
Thank, God, the paramedics didn't have to see my ass!

Paco's Perspective

That wheelchair has a mind of its own. I think it plans the things that happen.
Like the time it ran over my paw.

The Flip Side

I like to ride on your chair!
I like to ride on your chair!

* The BFG by Roald Dahl

Why I Do What I Do!

Every year when I fill out my income taxes and I come to the part where teachers can only deduct $250 for classroom expenses, I just die. (I spend that once a month on books for my classroom library.) Then I think to myself, "Whoever thinks this is fair is just one more person that doesn't get how much teachers do!"

I get to work every morning at 7 a.m. and I leave at 5:30 or 6 p.m. I, with many other teachers, put in at least a ten hour day. Then I go home and work at least another two hours planning, grading, helping students on the phone, and researching. I also work four to five hours on the weekends. That makes for about a sixty-five hour work week.

I know, no one ever said teaching was going to be easy, and I made this choice. But every once in a blue moon I just want to be appreciated. I just want someone to say thank you.

After finishing filling out my taxes and laughing at my pitiful return, I was WHINING! I was being a pissypants, and my New Year's resolution is to NOT be a pissypants. There I was whining like a kid not getting his way in a toy store when I checked my email and I was forwarded the following email:

My name is Samantha I am now 31 years old. I attended Peralta school twice during my childhood in the kindergarten and again in the 5th grade. I am looking for the woman who was my teacher in the 5th grade. Her name was Miss C.... Cathy Cunningham. While she was my teacher she was in a wheelchair. She made such a huge impact on my life. I have thought back to my time in her classroom many times over the past years. I have a feeling that she might not be alive anymore due to her health conditions. But I am praying that I am wrong. Both of my parents are deaf and that was such a struggle for me during my early years. Miss C helped me work through my parents’ handicap and helped me to know that it’s okay to be different or to have a disability.

After the 5th grade I moved to Washington. Now, I have moved back and am looking for Miss C. I'd love to know if she is still teaching there! Or if there is anyway to know or to find out if she is still alive or still teaching in Arizona. I am not sure if you are able to help me or not but I figured it might be best to start my search in the last place that I saw her.

Thank you so much for you time and for listening to my situation. I'd love a response back from you even if you aren't able to help me. That way I'll at least know that you got my message. Once again thank you so much.

After I finished bawling my guts out, drying my eyes, and slapping myself for being a pissypants, I immediately sent an email to this young lady. Just when I thought I was done crying Samantha sent me another email. Here is an excerpt from it:

Just knowing I found you is bringing tears to my eyes. I never had a chance to tell you how special you were to me and what a huge impact you made on my life. I didn't know at the time when I was young & in your class that I'd love and remember you forever. I still have the letters that you wrote to me. I find them every once in a while when going through my stuff and read them. Thank you so much for everything you did for me as a child. All of the love & attention you showed me really made a lasting impression on me. I'm not sure if you remember but you even took me to the mall once to buy me some lysine for my cold sores.... I still remember your little white mini van & how you'd let me operate the lift for you.

Then when I finished bawling again I knew this is why I do what I do. This is not the only letter that I have received like this, but, unfortunately, they are few and far between. I am okay with working so many hours. I am okay with working at home after school and on the week ends. I am okay with having no money and a lousy income tax return. I am okay with anything that comes my way. I will do it for the Samantha's of the world because they deserve it!

At the beginning of the school year I was creating a powerpoint with quotes from teachers that I work alongside. Below is one of those quotes:

Sometimes there is one person who changes the course of a child’s life, who even might save it. Assume that you are that person, every day, for every child. At least once in your career it will be true. And once is so worth it. -Lenora Counts

Lenora is so right once is worth it.

Paco's Perspective

Have you thanked me lately for making a difference in your life, Miss Pissypants?

The Flip Side

Am I a pissypants? Or is it I piss you off when I piss on the floor?

I Heart Edward Tulane

As I have stated in past posts, I am a book lover. I am a carry-a-book-with-me-wherever-I-go-read-any-chance-I-get-don't-look-at-my-amazon.com-bill book lover. But I am not a lover of adult fiction. I have tried to to read adult novels. I have tried the Oprah-Winfrey-disfunctional-family-of-the-month books and they bore me. I read children's books. I love to read children's books. Hand me the latest picture book or hot novel for youth and I will devour it. My carrot on the end of the stick would be a children's book.

I happen to have the ability to read aloud very well. God had to give me something, and He gave me the ability to entertain others with my read aloud capabilities. Whenever I introduce a new read to a group of students or teachers I always start by saying, "This. Is. My. Faaaaaavorite book. No. Really. It is. I'm not kidding." I say that about every book I read, so when I am asked by students, "What is your favorite book of all time?" I have trouble answering. Usually my favorite book is the new one I have in my hand at the time.

If I was told I had to live on a desert island and I could only take one book with me, it would not be the Bible (Sorry, my Christian friends). I have thought long and hard about this which is proof that I have no life! First, I am generally not a rule breaker, but in this case, I would be the one that would be caught trying to smuggle books in my underwear. If I had to pick only one book, it would be The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo. I believe that this book should be required reading for every man, woman, and child. Every home should have a copy, preferably hardback because it has color illustrations. Every new mother should be given a copy. Every teacher should be required to read it to their class. It is quite surprising that I love this book so much. I am not a fan of the fantasy genre. I hate it when the animals talk, so I should despise the fact that the main character, Edward Tulane, is a china rabbit that communicates.

If students are asked what this book is about, they will reply, "It is about a china rabbit doll that is lost and found and lost and found and lost and found and lost and found and lost and found." But, if asked to think deeper and explain what the book is REALLY about I hope they will answer, "It is the answer to all life's questions. It is about love. It is about death. It is about reflection and change."

I love Edward Tulane. Edward Tulane would make a great man. He looks fine in his silk suits with all the regalia, but he can wear an old unravelling sweater or even a dress and look quite handsome. He doesn't have to be called Edward or Mr. Tulane. He is perfectly happy being called Malone, Jangles or even Susanna. Edward is reflective. He is aware of his flaws and willing to change. Edward will love you with every bit of his china being. Edward will follow you to ends of the earth. He will follow you to the stars. I heart Edward Tulane from the top of his furry, bendable ears to the tip of his cracked china toes.

Now, Edward wasn't always as wonderful as the picture I have painted. At one time he was a self-centered, vain, egotistical jerk. He cared about no one but himself, and only worried about whether or not his clothes would get wrinkled. But, Edward Tulane took a journey, and on this journey he learned important life lessons. The reason I am so smitten with Edward is that he experienced life, learned from his experiences, and made the choice to change. Change is never easy, especially, when it involves changing one's own ideas or philosophies. It takes a courageous person or rabbit to reflect, find fault, and fix it. Edward looked inwardly at the man or rabbit in the mirror and made the difficult choice to change.

The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane is a quick read, but I suggest it be read slowly because the disappointment of having no more of the book to read is a heavy burden. Get a hardback copy as soon as possible. Buy extra copies. Don't be ashamed to pull it out of your bag on the airplane. It can stand up to the best of the book chat books. Read it several times because new learning will be found each time it is read. Beware: Kleenex are required. I have read this book at least thirty times and I have cried every time. Go ahead and read it, and when you are done it is okay to shout, "I heart Edward Tulane!"

Paco's Perspective

You have another thing coming, if you think that I am going to give up my number one spot on your "I love . . . . . ." list to a rabbit made of glass! I already have to share the spot with the slow one.

The Flip Side

Rabbit! Did someone say rabbit? Where?

Make a Difference, Not Excuses

I don't believe that at college one learns "how to teach". When attending the school of education one learns educational philosophies, best practices, and content knowledge, but the "real" learning takes place in the classroom. It is interesting watching fresh, new teachers enter the field thinking they know everything, and then realizing after just a few weeks in the trenches they know nothing. To become an accomplished musician, one has to make music, and to become a master teacher one has to teach. Just like music has changed and evolved over the decades so must teaching.

This is my thirty-first year of working in the field of education. I have gone through an evolution process throughout my teaching career. When I look back at some of my personal teaching philosophies I roll my eyes, make that tsking noise, and wonder, "What was I thinking?' I am not proud of some of the teaching strategies I have used, but I am proud that throughout my teaching career I have looked to myself to make a change. As the neighborhood I teach in has evolved over the years and has sent my school different kinds of students from military "brats" to English language learners, I have had to change my thinking to accommodate the different socioeconomic students.

In Arizona our "test" is called the AIMS (Arizona Instrument to Measure Standards). Unfortunately, everything revolves around the AIMS. Whether or not a school goes into school improvement depends on how well a school does on the AIMS. The federal government has passed No Child left Behind, and this bill insists that by 2012 one hundred percent of students attending public schools must meet or exceed the standards as measured by the AIMS. 100%!
The grades that are scrutinized are third, fifth and eighth. There is so much pressure on third, fifth and eighth grade teachers to make sure that their students excel on the AIMS. Even though administration touts that everyone is responsible for a school's success on the AIMS, the heavy pressure is placed on third, fifth, and eighth grade teachers. One has to be extremely brave to choose to teach third, fifth, and eigth grade in Arizona.

I was a fifth grade teacher for many years and faced that tremendous pressure to get my students to do well on the AIMS. Eight years ago fifth grade at my school was not doing well on the AIMS, and I fell into a trap. A trap so deep I thought I wasn't going to make it out. I was snared. I fell into the trap of excuses: The test is too hard. The test doesn't measure what we are teaching. The test is too long. The students don't understand. It is . . . . It doesn't . . . . . . . . They can't . . . . . . They don't . . . . . . They won't . . . . . . . STOP! HELP!

Thank God, I was rescued! A colleague reached in and pulled me out of that trap. I started team teaching with Colleen Meyer. At the time we weren't friends, we knew we had the same philosophies and ideas, but what we didn't know was what we would be able to do together. I learned more from Colleen than I did from any college professor or mentor. The most important thing I learned was to stop making excuses and start making a difference. When we looked at data no longer did I say, "Oh great, they didn't get it!", we perused the data, found OUR problem places, and decided where we were going to make a change in our teaching. Over the years our teaching evolved and so did our friendship. I thanked God for Colleen daily because I was driving down the rutted teaching path, and she drove up and pulled me out of those ruts.

For every teaching excuse we made a change:

Our parents can't help our students with their homework. We expected them to do there homework. We gave our students our phone number and told them, "Call us if you need help on your homework or if there is an emergency." I have never had students misuse this privilege.

Our students need more help than we can give them. We expected them to be responsible for their learning. Our classroom was open all day. We arrived early (Colleen arrived really early), and our students started coming in early for help. We ate lunch in our room to help our students during their lunch recess. On days that we didn't have meeting our doors were open for any student to enter and ask for help.

Our students don't care about their progress. We expected them to care. We showed them where they were and where they needed to be, and we conferenced with them individually to discuss how that individual student was going to reach their goal.

Our students aren't motivated to learn. We expected them to be motivated. We created silly incentives, but most important we showered our students with praise. We honored our students. We celebrated their successes no matter how small.

When I stopped making excuses and started making changes with my teaching, my students soared. I believe teaching is the hardest job in the world. It is easy to fall into the excuses trap. If there is a teacher reading this that has fallen into a trap, don't despair, reach out for help. It is okay to ask for help. If the words, "They can't . . . " begins to appear, STOP, and say, "I will . . . ., They will . . . . ., I can . . . . ., They can. . . . " It is difficult clawing a way out of a trap, but it is possible!

Paco's Perspective

"Paco, Flip is just a puppy. He doesn't know about sharing toys." You also shouldn't make excuses for that dog!

The Flip Side

The reason I poop on Breann's floor is . . . . wait, don't make excuses, . . . . . the reason I don't always come when you call is . . . . .oops, don't make excuses . . . . . I'm thinking . . . . .I'm thinking . . . . . I'm thinking I don't get this game.

I Should Have Been a Cowboy

The state of Arizona is experiencing its worse budget crisis in recent history. The state of Arizona has a three billion dollar deficit. Over the past few years the state has got itself into this deficit by borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. Peter is now pissed, and he wants his money back. Peter has friends in the Mafia and so the state has decided to balance the budget. Since, fifty percent of Arizona's budget is spent on education (which happens to be in the bottom five for the amount states spend on education), then the cuts will affect the field of education the greatest. I should have been a cowboy.

Last year, Cartwright School District (whom I happen to work for) had to make a nine million dollar budget reduction. In order to cut this much money, Cartwright had to borrow from Peter to pay Paul. Now, one would think that Paul would have learned his lesson with the state, but he must be co-dependent. Anyway, this year Cartwright has to make a $7.4 million to a $9.8 million cut to the M & O budget. Of course, cuts to the M & O budget involve cuts to the school personnel which includes teachers, principals, secretaries and aides. Aides will be let go, teachers salaries will be cut, teachers will be cut, assistant principals will be cut, class sizes will increase. It is called The Stack 'em Deep and Teach 'em Cheap Theory. I should have been a cowboy. I should have learned to rope and ride.

I have worked for the Cartwright School District for thirty years. This is my thirty-first year, and I should have received an award and gift for thirty years of service. I was overlooked and told that there was no more money for service awards this year. (That damn Peter-Paul thing!) But, really what was I going to do with $100 gift card to Home Depot; paint my room again? One reason I continued to teach for the Cartwright District was it had a great retirement package which is now gone. Now, I continue to work for the insurance which the district is thinking of changing or taking away. I should have been a cowboy. I should have learned to rope and ride. Wearing my six, shooter riding my pony on a cattle drive.

In the past, when there were budget cuts at the district I had no worries. I had seniority. I knew I had a job. Guess what? Not any more. The state of Arizona has taken tenure away from teachers. I no longer have seniority. I no longer have any job security. I could be riffed for no reason. If one is a numbers person, and if one needs to make cuts, it would be obvious to start at the top salary. And that would be me. I should have been a cowboy. I should have learned to rope and ride. Wearing my six shooter, riding my pony on a cattle drive. Just like Gene and Roy.

My New Year's Resolution was to NOT be a pissypants! So, I must look on the bright side. This next school year I will have a job. The Cartwright District has promised to honor seniority, this next year, but, at one time, the district also promised to buy back one's sick days at one's time of retirement. A promise to buy back sick days that the district might now just take away. OOPS! I will not be a pissypants! I will not be a pissypants! I WILL HAVE A JOB! I WILL HAVE INSURANCE (one way or the other)! And I LOVE my job. I really do. I don't like breaks. I would rather work. My job brings me joy. My job fills my heart. Even though I am asked to do more and more for less and less, I still love my job and I wouldn't want to do anything else!

Aw, let's face it, what else could a fifty-four year old crippled kid do? I am not fun, but I am funny. I could be a stand-up comedienne. Oops, I can't stand. I could sing and dance my way to fame and fortune. Oops, I can't sing. I could sell flowers in a tube top on the corner. Yikes, that is an ugly visualization.

I should have been a cowboy.
I should have learned to rope and ride.
Wearing my six shooter,
Riding my pony
On a cattle drive.
Just like Gene and Roy,
Singing those campfire songs.
Aw, I should have been a cowboy.
lyrics written by Toby Keith

Paco's Perspective

Yea, and I should have been a great dane, Miss Pissypants!

The Flip Side

I should have been . . . . I should have been . . . . I should have been . . . . okay wait, give me a minute, I'll think of something.

Uphill, Both Ways

Recently, I just turned fifty-four years. At one time in my life I thought that was extremely old. Then I turned fifty-four, and it didn't seem so old. Turning fifty-four gave me pause to think about my father who died at the young age of fifty-four.

My father was a country boy through and through from the tip of his cute little nose to end of his toes. He lived on a farm in Princeton, Missouri. He listened to country music. He knew how to country dance. My father had a country boy attitude. He was full of country sayings.

My father passed time when he was young like all country boys. He rode horses, helped with the farm, went hunting, and caused mischief. I remember my aunt telling me about when my father and uncle would go "frog giggin'". My father would make my aunt put on a heavy coat, and he would shoot his BB gun at her. If she yelled, "Ow!", he knew the gun would kill frogs.

I was extremely fortunate to grow up in a home with parents that accepted my brother's and my disability without a single grumble. There was never self-pity. (If there was grumbling and self-pity, my parents made sure we never heard it.) We were given the opportunity to do everything that other kids our age did. When friends of the family were camping and riding motorbikes, my father made sure that our family did the same. He built motorbikes with sidecars to accommodate our disability. I don't ever remember feeling depressed that I couldn't do what my friends could do because, I knew, all I had to do was tell my parents that I wanted to something and they would figure out a way to make it happen. My father was a visionary, and I believed that with his genius I could do anything.

My father never spanked us. I only remember him taking his belt off, snapping it, and threatening to use it, once! The only thing my father had to say was, "I am so disappointed in you!" When he said that I would crumble. Sadly, for my mom, my father left all the disciplinary actions to her.

My father always had interesting wise words of wisdom and odd sayings. We always heard the familiar, "When I was your age . . . . . . ." I remember continually being told, "When I was your age I had to walk to school every day. I had to walk five miles uphill in the snow."

We would reply, "Really, Dad, uphill, both ways?"

"Yes, I lived in a very hilly area," he would explain.

"And always in the snow?" we would inquire.

"Yes, I only went to school on snowy days. I had to work in the fields the days it didn't snow."

My mother would chime in, "Don't let your father fool you. He rode a horse to school. The horse knew the way so well that your father slept both ways, and it wasn't uphill. And it definitely wasn't in the snow."

My father had a unique way of describing people and events. I had a friend in high school that loved my father's saying. She would write down what he said, and she would tell him, "Someday I am going to write a book of your sayings." She didn't write a book, but I am happy to share them with my readers. Here goes:

• He was shaking like a dog shitting razor blades.
• She is homelier than an old mud fence.
• That boy could eat corn on a cob through a picket fence.
• It is colder than a well digger's ass in July.
• It is hotter than nickel night at the whore house.
• It is a vicious circle, like wiping your ass on a hoop.
• He is so skinny he has to run around the shower to get wet.
• You can't carry a tune in paper sack.
  
• She was so ugly we had to tie a pork chop around her neck before the dogs would play with her.

I don't have many memories of my father. If I had known he was going to die at such a young age, I would have been sure to take "mind snapshots" of my father. Remember it is never too late to take "mind snapshots" of your family and friends. Don't forget to make memories.

Paco's Perspective

How's this for clever sayings?

• Flip is dumber than a box of rock .

• Lights are on, but . . . . . . . .

• There are bats in the new kid's belfry!

Don't stop me now, I am on a roll.

The Flip Side

Paco twirls like . . . . . twirls like . . . . . . . .twirls like . . . . . . . ,okay, I give up!

The Patience of Job

I have two dogs. One is a maltese and terrier which makes him a Mallmutt. The Mallmutt was dumped near our home. He was brought home in hopes of finding his owner and if not, then he would be taken to the Humane Society. But, everyone in the family fell in love with Filp, the Mallmut,t and he is now a much loved member of the family. My other dog is a chihuahua and his name is Paco. Paco is not a normal yippy-yappy snarling chihuahua. From day one I made sure that he was socialized. If anyone asked to hold him, it was allowed. He was raised with a five year old girl that carried him around everywhere she went. He has played surgery, beauty parlor, house, school and prison with the five year old. I have found him wrapped in blankets in a stroller and even stuffed inside a box. Paco has the patience of Job.

Paco is now three years old and I get worried that someday he will lose his patience. When Flip showed up Paco had to share his toys, bed, food, and loving. Because Flip is a stray he is a bit food, toy and bed aggressive, and Patient Paco just goes with the flow.

This past week a dear friend, Rhonda, and her granddaughter, Lexi, came to visit. Lexi latched onto Paco like a leech to skin. She carried him everywhere. Lexi would pick Paco up under his front legs and tote him around, and Paco would just look at me as if to say, "Hey, I thought we were done with five year olds!" Lexi would fling him on the bed and jump on the bed with him. She would lay on top of him. She would hold him up in the air. She would fling him off the bed. For the entire visit a moment didn't go by that Paco wasn't being kid-handled, and he NEVER growled or snapped at her. Lexi was twenty pounds of energy in a five pound bag!

Lexi said, "Caffy (that's me), Paco is my new BFF."

"Really? You like him that much!" I replied.

"Yes, I love Paco. Paco is the best chickachickahuahua in the world," giggled Lexi.

Lexi is right. I was never a dog person, and I never thought I would become one, but I have. Paco is, also, my BFF. He is always happy to see me. He is so happy to see me he twirls when I come into a room.(Actually, he twirls when anyone comes into a room.) Paco follows me wherever I go. He guards me continuously. Paco knows when he is needed. Paco is the best chickachickahuahua in the world!

Paco's Perspective

Yikes! That giggling Lexi was a handful. I haven't seen her today. Did she go home? Please tell me she went home!

The Flip Side

Hey, what about me? I am good dog! I am a good dog! I am a good dog! Paco isn't as patient as you think.