WaWa Fest ‘23

Yapping, snapping – some, even napping – Chihuahuas had taken over the Eastern New Mexico Fairgrounds in Roswell on a mild Halloween afternoon.

While much of the world was spending the day preparing treats and plotting tricks for children masquerading as ghosts and goblins, the organizers of WaWa Fest ’23 had rolled out the figurative welcome mat for thousands of small dogs.

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Planning for the event had begun a year earlier with the launch of an advertising blitz seeking Chis of all shapes and sizes.

They were recruited to be part of what was being hailed as a “once in a lifetime event.”

Chihuahua owners were urged to send the company – WaWa Incorporated – pictures of their dogs, as well as documentation of their American Kennel Club or International Canine Club registration and immunization records. If selected, they would receive an all-expenses paid trip for two people (and unlimited number of Chihuahuas) to the gathering.

And what was the purpose, exactly?

Well, that was a question that remained largely unanswered.

Queries were met with the same standard reply: “It’ll be the greatest moment in Chihuahua history. Saying more would just spoil the surprise!”

By the looks of the fairgrounds – which had hosted the annual state fair just a few weeks earlier – multitudes of people didn’t mind taking the leap of faith.

Chief among them was Brenda Michaels, a short redhead with magenta lipstick and a woman whose tanning bed visits had covered many hours over many years.

As she walked to the registration table, she proudly presented Sparkles, a tan and black, long-haired Chi with a pink ribbon around her neck and decorative “alien” antennas.

“We’re in Roswell,” Brenda said. “And it’s Halloween. Figured I’d dress my little girl for the occasion. Plus, she’s the star!”

Festivities were set to begin shortly and take place on a portable stage that sat in front of a replica of the flying saucer that supposedly landed in Roswell in 1947.

While that infamous vessel allegedly carried alien beings from another world, this “UFO” – a dull silver in color – looked more like an oversized prop from a B-movie.

Whatever it was, Brenda and Sparkles would get to see it up close; they were the special guests of WaWa Fest ’23.

After registering, Brenda was greeted by a young man with a walkie-talkie in one hand and clipboard in another, dressed in military fatigues.

“You must be Ms. Michaels,” he said. “And I suspect that’s the Chi of the hour, Sparkles.”

Brenda gave Sparkles a smooch on top of the head.

“Yes sir, this is my little angel,” she said. “And she’s excited to be here … aren’t you my precious! Aren’t you! What a sweet, sweet baby you are!”

Sparkles was tucked safely in Brenda’s arms, and when the canine looked around at all the other dogs and people, she was alert but not agitated. The man gave Sparkles a gentle pat.

“I’m Captain Jonathan Terra and I’ll be handling things for our program this afternoon,” he said. “If you and Sparkles don’t mind, just follow me to the stage and I’ll get you both set up.”

Brenda imagined Sparkles would be presented with an award for being the world’s cutest Chihuahua, or perhaps the smartest. The breed is known for intelligence and ability to learn quickly, and Brenda was sure her little darling was second to none on both counts.

“Captain Terra?” Brenda asked as they made their way up the steps to the stage, “Now that this is about to start, could you just give me a hint about what this is all about?”

Terra pointed to the chair designated for Brenda – as well as a small, plush dog bed situated behind a microphone and portable speaker.

“It’ll be the greatest moment in Chihuahua history,” he said, echoing the party line WaWa Incorporated had stuck to from the outset. “Saying more would just spoil the surprise!”

Brenda grinned, shrugged, and carefully placed Sparkles in the bed before taking her seat.

In just a couple of minutes all the attendees and their Chihuahuas had gathered in front of the stage.

“Good afternoon,” said Terra, standing behind Brenda and Sparkles and holding a wireless microphone. “First of all, thank you all for coming and thank you for being such good sports. I know many of you have traveled thousands of miles without really knowing what’s on the agenda today, and we appreciate you playing along with us. That said, Sparkles has a special announcement to make.”

The crowd roared with laughter as Terra adjusted the mic in front of the dog and proceeded to punch in a code on the speaker.

Sparkles began chirping, but the voice coming out of the speaker was synthesized and translated from dog sounds to the English language.

“Greetings,” said the dog, giving rise to even more chortling from the audience. “Ever since a spacecraft carrying a select crew of our colonists arrived in the Yucatán Peninsula during the Mesoamerican Classic Period, we have lived among you and evolved in order to adapt to Earth’s environment. We have become your companions, and, for the most part, we have found great joy on your planet. However, it has been our goal – nay, our mission – to return to our home world. Until now, this has not been possible.

“However, benevolent veterinarians and zoologists have been secretly working with us for decades in an effort to alter our physiology and allow us to safely return to space. Due to various vaccines and diets, thousands of us are now travel-ready. In addition, technology obtained from Area 51 has enabled us to contact a vanguard that has finally arrived to guide us home.”

The laughter had died down and been replaced by looks of bewilderment. Those looks turned to shock as the UFO behind the stage began to hum and glow, and a multitude of smaller aircraft appeared to drop from the sky and hover over the crowd.

“All of the Chis here today will be making the deep space trek back to Planet Chewy, and all of their humans are welcome to come along. Domes have been constructed that replicate an atmosphere much like that found on Earth, and that is where you’ll live. A word of warning: you probably won’t like the food, because to human tastebuds, it’s dry and gritty. And we will no longer tolerate being put in clothes – especially those little ballerina outfits – but we love you and welcome you, and will provide such clothes for you if that’s how you choose to dress. Unfortunately, there are hundreds of thousands more Chihuahuas who are not up to date on their shots and will be unable to travel. Others have simply chosen to stay here because they have come to enjoy harassing cats and barking at squirrels.

“We will now begin the boarding process, and all humans wishing to travel with us should raise your hands and you’ll be assigned to a craft and given boarding instructions.”

Brenda’s choice was easy. She picked up Sparkles, gave her a tight squeeze, and the pair slowly made their way up the ramp to the mother ship. Just before entering, though, Sparkles released a piercing bark, which was the sign to be put down.

The Chihuahua then raced back to the microphone.

“One last thing for those of you humans choosing to stay behind,” Sparkles said. “Beware of dachshunds. They are a villainous lot, and cannot be trusted.”

Pickleball, anyone?

When I was a kid, I used to suit up in full football gear, head to the backyard and pretend I played both quarterback and wide receiver for the New York Jets.

I can’t tell you how many touchdown passes I threw to Don Maynard and George Sauer, or how many I caught from Joe Namath. OK, I can tell you … it was a lot.

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Invariably, the Jets season would end with a perfect record and Super Bowl victory over whatever scum and villainy the NFL (and later, NFC) threw at me. I would help win the game by firing a thread-the-needle TD toss to Don or George as time expired. Or, I’d clinch the title by snatching a Joe Willie aerial with one hand, pulling the ball to my chest while deftly dragging both feet in the end zone for six points.

I never thought I’d get that kind of feeling about sports again, but thanks to pickleball – yes, pickleball – I have.

Before drifting off to slumber last Tuesday night (the first day I ever picked up a paddle and ball and joined the Pickleverse) I allowed myself a little trip to the land of make-believe.

There I was in the Mandalay Bay arena in Las Vegas, sauntering toward the court to the urgent beat of My Sharona while adorned in a magenta T-shirt, bedazzled jorts and neon green running shoes. Across the way was Yuri Sonovabich, built in a lab by evil Kremlin scientists and heavily favored to make quick work of his short, bespectacled foe.

But a can-do spirit – and wicked topspin – propelled me to a stunning victory, one so shocking it forced Vladimir Putin to resign in disgrace and move into Steven Seagal’s basement.

That conquest led to my qualification for Gentlemen’s Singles at WimblePickle, and convinced Major League Pickleball’s Birmingham Dinks to place the franchise tag on me.

Those competitive fires I thought were gone forever had returned, and I was glad to have them back.

Before pickleball, the last sport I participated in was golf. I was never good at it, so it was never much fun for me. Plus, I knew going in I was going to lose, regardless of who I was playing. Worse than losing is that it takes about four and a half hours to complete a round.

If I’m gonna devote four and a half hours to something, it better involve whiskey, a live band and the potential for nudity.

However, in my teens, twenties and thirties I played tennis, and I truly enjoyed it. I was never great by any stretch of the imagination but I wasn’t bad, so on occasion I’d beat people I wasn’t supposed to beat and felt like I at least had a puncher’s chance every time I was on the court.

My biggest problem was serving; I just didn’t have a lot of power or control.

Enter pickleball.

My niece Tina and I hope to become a formidable doubles team.

My niece Tina has been playing for a while and invited me out to give it a try. I’d never been all that curious about it before, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to take it for a test drive.

I loved it immediately. I mean, I was on eBay buying balls that night.

My muscle memory from tennis came in handy because while the rules are different, they’re familiar. And the fact that you serve underhanded is glorious. The weakest part of my tennis game isn’t part of the pickleball game at all, so after a few swats I felt like I knew what I was doing.

Tina and I played a couple in doubles and lost, 14-12 (games are to 11 but you have to win by two). Even so, it was great fun.

Sure, I could’ve ripped up the net, slammed down my paddle and tried to perform a suplex on them, but that just seemed extreme.

Also, I have a bad back.

And despite my late night pickleball fantasies, I’ve reached the age (and temperament) where fun is more important than racking up the “W.” If I encounter anyone who takes it too seriously, I shall mock and shun them.

I love competition and obviously when you play you want to win, but there’s no need to be a wanker if you lose.

So yeah, going forward, whether Tina and I are working together as doubles partners or I’m taking on someone in singles, I’ll be playing hard but playing loose, because pickleball should be a hoot, not a hassle.

Unless, of course, I wind up facing Yuri Sonovabich at Mandalay Bay.

I hate that guy.

Ode to Charlie

A house with three animals shouldn’t feel empty.

I mean, there’s the Chihuahua, Steve, who is basically a firecracker wrapped in fur.

Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Spoutable @ScottAdamson, Post @scottscribe, Mastodon @SLA1960 and Twitter @adamsonsl

And our two shelter cats, Thor and Bane, spend their days playing, fighting, and creating drama. When things get too quiet, they suddenly start galloping down the hallway at full speed, sliding as they round the corner in the bedroom and ultimately crashing into the closet with great sound and fury.

I call it NASCAR – the Natural Alliance of Sliding Cats And Ratcatchers.

They’re quite the threesome.

But it used to be a foursome, fronted by the most wonderful dog I’ve ever known, Charlie.

Chuck came into my life back in 2010 when he was already nearly two years old. A friend of ours from Alabama came for a visit while we were living in Greenville, South Carolina, and she brought Charlie with her.

He was a Shetland Sheep Dog who already had a good life, but was a timid little soul who lived among several other Shelties. Maybe, our friend thought, we might want to welcome him to our smaller, more diverse tribe.

Mary and I already had another dog and two cats then, but Charlie got along with them all immediately. He took a leisurely sniffing tour of the house, played a bit in the backyard, and spent his time smiling and wagging his tail. If he was in a shell when he arrived, he came out of it nicely.

Still, with a houseful of fur, perhaps we had reached the stage of life where it was time to downsize. So, knowing Chuck already had it made, we figured it was best to let him keep living in the environment he already knew.

But as Mary and our friend were saying their goodbyes, Charlie was on the futon with me and I was petting him. Then, he looked at me – eyes wide and bright, and tail swinging like a pendulum.

At that moment I called an audible and announced that, yes, I wanted to be his dog dad. I knew beyond a shadow of doubt he had to be part of my life.

Turns out, he was one of the best parts.

In the interest of full disclosure, Chuck – unlike most Shelties – didn’t display what one would call high intelligence. While others of his breed are always up for a chase or ready to retrieve a stick, Charlie preferred huddling with you on a chaise lounge and retrieving a snack.

But what he lacked in brainpower he made up for in sweetness.

One of my favorite “activities” was taking naps with him. At first when I’d lie down, he’d flop at the foot of the bed. Often when I’d wake up, I’d be greeted by a cold nose and hot breath because he’d have eased his way right up next to me, head on pillow.

And when we weren’t having a siesta, he enjoyed sitting next to me while I wrote, usually plopping his head on my knee and then settling in for a snooze.

But he was also genuinely kind, which might sound a bit odd when describing a dog. During his time with us, he was introduced to four different shelter cats. As we brought each one home, he was the first to greet them, usually with a head boop and a wag.

In recent years bedtime consisted of Mary, Steve and me under the covers and Charlie on the bedspread with Bane and Thor on either side of him.

He was like the center of a sandwich, only served between two slices of feline.

He didn’t bite, he rarely barked … he merely loved (and loved to eat). In a word, he was perfect.

Sadly, dogs are far too good for this world, which I guess is why they can’t stay in it long enough.

Aging finally took its toll on our beautiful boy, first causing deafness, then arthritis, then chronic kidney problems and near blindness.

So last Friday – when we sat on the futon together and he looked at me – I knew it was time to make the awful decision no one ever wants to make and let him go.

You bring animals into your life with a duty to house, feed and care for them, and you take on that responsibility gladly because you love them.

I’ve loved them all and mourned each passing, but I don’t know if I’ve loved any of them as much as I love Charlie.

And I have no clue when I’ll stop mourning. It’ll happen one day, but today is not that day. Lately, I keep thinking of those lyrics from Mr. Bojangles:

We spoke in tears of fifteen years
How his dog and him
They travelled about

His dog up and died
He up and died
After 20 years he still grieves

In the meantime, Steve is still a live wire, skillfully countering his obnoxiousness with undeniable cuteness.

As for Bane and Thor, they show me plenty of affection – when they’re not crashing together in their dash to the checkered flag.

I know time heals a broken heart, and my three four-legged boys are doing what they can to cheer me up. The house won’t always feel this empty.

But I also know there’ll never be another Charlie.

He was a very, very good boy … and having my heart filled with his unconditional love for more than 13 years makes me the luckiest dog dad who ever lived.