I was going through a lengthy dry spell with the rucas of L.A. and my roommate Sergio was like, “Go down to the dog pound and get your ass a chocha magnet!”
I was broke at the time so I went to a ramshackle kill shelter in Van Nuys and they had some hard luck cases there. Mostly beat-down Pits and Rotties on life support, corralled in a special ward to remind us of the cruel dog-eat-dog world we all inhabit. I remember they had a Blue Pit named Cicatrice that barked like a squawking parrot because part of its throat had been ripped out in a dog fight. Shit was rough (si cabron, pun intended!) I don’t like those big dogs. They’re like wolves and coyotes to me. They’re nice to look at like in pictures and I would use one as a screensaver on my laptop but I wouldn’t hang out with one. They’ll rip your lungs out, Jim. No, I wanted a cute little dog like Eddie from Fraiser but the pooch pickings were so slim there that I ended up with a hairless piss bucket named Chimichanga that only had three legs and one eye. I took Lil’ Chim to the beach to pull wool and women shrieked in terror at the sight of him. Some children cried. He died a week later from embarrassment. RIP, Chimmy! Actually, the vet said it was occult neoplasia. Pinche perro satanico.
Anyway, fast-forward ten years and I was still striking out with the heinas and my buddy Telmo said, “Go to the dog shelter and rescue yourself a chocha magnet!” I wasn’t as broke so this time I went to a fancy humane shelter in Pasadena and holy Chihuahuas, it was a whole different scene on the rich side of the abandoned pet market. The facilities were top notch and the dogs available for adoption had all of their eyes and legs. Those canines had it good there. Maybe too good. When I pointed at a full-bred, two-year-old Wire-haired Fox Terrier and shouted “I want that one!” the female employee was like “Not so fast, Cesar Millan. How do you know it wants you?” I had to fill out an application and undergo an interview process.
“I don’t wanna work here,” I explained. “I just want the chocha magnet.”
“Sir, we care deeply for these animals and we take the responsibility of placing them in a loving home very seriously.”
“But that dog’s been waiting to be adopted for two weeks. That’s like an eternity for him.”
The interview ended right there and I didn’t get the dog, but I realize now that it was probably a good thing, because any shelter that would allow someone like me to adopt from them is probably not too fit to function.
So yeah, these people did care, and they cock-blocked me from my chocha magnet to prove it. Eventually I went back to the Van Nuys kill shelter and they practically paid me to take one of their perritos. I settled on a skittish Miniature Pinscher named Alma. Another satanic dog. That Min-Pin is tiny but she’s the biggest pain in my ass. She keeps me so busy with her rescue baggage and all of her high maintenance bullshit that I don’t even have time for a ruca. Thank God.