If you don’t believe stereotypes exist for a reason, walk a 10-pound chihuahua in public.
You will find out really fucking fast, that Mexicans love chihuahuas. Sure, it’s a generalization that borders on the sort of racist sentiments that took Speedy Gonzales off the air. But I’m telling you, it’s sort of true.
I don’t even have a full-blooded chihuahua. Carol Baskins is a mix. But apparently she can pass for Mexican in a pinch.
The first walk I ever took her on at my old condo in Tucson, one of the landscapers — a grown ass man with a Pancho Villa mustache — stopped me.
“Gotta love that dog,” he said. “She’s from my people.”
He followed us for a few minutes and smiled at every little growl and high pitched “howl” Carol loosed to let him know “better not fuck with us.” It’s hard not to laugh at her “aggression.” Any other reaction would be like getting scared because a baby made a face.
I just smiled and grunted. It was early in “our relationship.” I was still pretty embarrassed to be a 250-pound man walking a dog that has to run away from every house cat. I’ve mostly gotten over the embarrassment and become accustomed to people pointing and laughing at “us” in public.
While blushing less, I’ve learned more about the deep connections between the sons of the conquistadors and these miniature huskies.
Car loads of kids have stopped and waved at my little chihuahua. Old ladies have gawked and guffawed at her little struts on the sidewalk.
But there’s nothing like the bond between full-grown hispanic men and their little tiny “Mexican dogs.”
I stopped for gas the other day. Carol was howling in the car. Sounded like a baby with a full diaper. Without even seeing the dog… “heh you got a chihuahua in there, huh,” said the man at the next pump. “I’ve got three of them at home. They never shut the fuck up.”
“Lucky you,” I said.
Sarcasm seemed to be the only reasonable response to this male-bonding exercise.
But he was not alone. Carol’s most adamant admirers all seem to be large men who temporarily hide their machismo in favor of their favorite mutts.
They give me that knowing smile, like we are sharing a secret, and then tell me their stories of their relationships.
“Mine sleeps next to me.”
“My chihuahua cries when I leave.”
“I loved the first one so much, I had to get two more.”
I feel like I should answer them in turn.
“My little Mexican keeps my balls warm at night.”
Sure, sure that sounds racist and fucked up in a number of ways. But it is definitely true. You walk a chihuahua in public and sleep with a few at night, and tell me that Mexican men’s love for their chihuahuas isn’t real.
Categories: Carol Baskins