The Attack Potato

This is an Attack Potato:

“But, LawDog,” I hear you say, “That’s obviously a chihuahua.”

Nope, that’s an Attack Potato.

Friends of ours are out of town, so we are taking care of their various livestock, among which is the afore-mentioned Attack Potato.

What makes it an Attack Potato, instead of your more garden-variety spud, you ask?

Simple. This one Has Views regarding not only me, but also the horse I rode in on. And while it hasn’t nibbled me, the entire time I’m in the house trying to chivvy it, the Dustmop, and Wigglebutt von Floofenstein out to do their business, Attack Potato is loudly declaiming my character, ancestry, romantic inclinations, and personal hygiene to the neighbors, the garden bugs, and the coyotes out in the back 40.

Apparently I am an Untrustworthy Communist Who Probably Eats Dogs. Or something.

It’s to the point that I’m seriously considering upgrading its classification from “Attack Potato” to “Rage Tater”*.

If I disappear over the next couple of nights or so, interview the geckos.

They see everything.

Picture of Wigglebutt von Floofenstein for Internet Tax Purposes:

I’m pretty sure that is not Wigglebutt von Floofenstein’s usual orientation, but since that’s the only view I get, I just do belly rubs and move on. Who am I to judge?

Anyhoo, how’s y’all’s day?


*I kid, I kid. The Attack Potato is actually very sweet, she just doesn’t trust me worth a damn, and is not shy about announcing that fact to the entire neighborhood, if not entire County. Besides, she’d have to break into the double-digit weight range to actually be a threat. I think.

I'll do it my way ...
Goblin Market

14 thoughts on “The Attack Potato”

  1. All chihuahuas are attack potatoes. Anyone who says differently doesn’t know chihuahuas.

  2. That particular Hater Tater has no teeth, so the worst she can do is gum you. And it’s not just you that she finds deeply suspicious!

    1. I knew a screenwriter once who had a Theory of Dog Energy, which was that every dog was allotted the same amount of energy, regardless of size. So medium size dogs have the proper amount. Larger breeds, like Saint Bernards, are more docile because they don’t have quite enough. And Chihuahuas are just exploding with it because they’re overstuffed.

      (This was then analogized to movie productions — big budget movies might shoot a page of script in a day. Low budget movies have a much shorter shooting schedule, and might have to shoot ten or more pages a day, every day.)

  3. Thoughts and prayers. The only dog to ever really bite me (not just a warning nip), really chomp and draw blood, was one of those misbegotten monstrosities. Not a fan.

    1. Likewise! I’ve owed dogs ranging in size up to a Mastiff/Black Lab cross (Otis aka “The Hound of the Baskervilles” who was the reason my late hubby never worried about me being along when he was on duty) but the only real bite was from my grandmother’s chihuahua. Nailed me in the fleshy part of my thumb and PULLED. This resulted in stitches and a new found respect for small dogs that think they are big dogs.

  4. I have been reliably informed the Hater Tater does not believe in being chivvied outdoors to do her business, and is expecting humans to pick her up and carry her instead of making her walk. Thus, the low opinion of humanity (other than Her People) becomes even lower when you make her exercise.

    Of course, the more she declares to the world that your genetic material descended via fission from drill instructors, the less likely you are to pick her up and carry her instead of making her walk, thus reinforcing the Requirement To Exercise…

  5. Only dogs we had problems with when I worked animal control were chi-hoo-a-hoo-a’s.

    Extra points if you read that in Richard Sanders voice.

    1. A co-worker honest-to-gawd naively used that pronunciation. Luckily, someone kinder than I informed her of her faux pas.

      She also said “like a hawk on ice”. That one took some explaining.

      I don’t particularly like chihuahuas, but I admire their chutzpah.

  6. We woke up to a bundle of pug energy this morning. We don’t have a pug.
    Melvin, the little squash nosed ferret that’s technically a dog, was here again. He doesn’t belong in our little compound, but the one up the street.
    Melvin… likes to go visiting.
    Neighbors have a range of dogs all the way up to a huge 100+lb mastiff, and all the way down to … this creature. Only Melvin likes to go walkabout though. This isn’t the first time he’s shown up here. See, he apparently has no sense of direction, but does remember where friendly folks are. He’s disappeared from his proper residence before, including a 5 week period last year, that he evidently spent couch surfing the entire time. A series of Facebook posts about “found dog, now where did he go?” chronicled his adventures across the county, with him disappearing every time before he could be returned. It culminated with us, literally down the road from his home, and us taking him back. Several times. In one day.
    This is, however, the first time he’s actually come inside. Seems he has finally figured out that we have a doggy door.
    Tellingly, none of our proper SIX dogs raised the alarm; rather, the 3 oldsters just kinda shrugged, while the 3 puppies (the smallest of which is still twice that little pug’s size) decided he was a better toy than the cats, because he would play back.
    Melvin has been returned home. Again. We shall see how long it lasts this time.

  7. The attack potato hates ALL men… I got the same treatment, while the other two wanted/got the obligatory scritches and went out with NO problems.

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