"D" IS FOR DACHSHUND . . . WHAT ELSE??

In my attempt at writing articles with the alphabet,  this one is in honor of the letter D.  There were quite a few things that I could have written about, such as dirt, dragons, desserts, or dishwashers, but I kept coming back to my favorite dog, the dachshund.

My family first owned a dachshund when we lived in Bremerhaven, Germany, and her name was Elia.  She was a red standard, smooth coat, and although I was only nine or ten at the time, I agreed with my parents that she was quite stubborn--a doxie trait.  In an attempt to housebreak her, my parents left newspapers down for her to use:  that seemed to be the method of housebreaking dogs back then. After all, we lived in a third-floor apartment with no elevator, so it wasn't always convenient to take Elia out when necessary.  There were sixty-four steps up to our apartment--I know, because I often counted them when I came home from school in the afternoons.  A lot of stairs.   Well, Elia would "hold it" for hours and hours when my mother would put her out on the balcony, then when Mom took pity on the poor dog and let her in, that's when Elia decided it was time to go potty--right there in the middle of the living room floor.  My mother was not happy, to say the least.  I don't recall what happened to this stubborn-but-loving doxie.  We left Germany for the States when I was twelve, so I suppose we foisted her off on another family.  I believe by then that she was housebroken, though.



Mom and Dad owned another red standard female by the name of Samantha, whom we called Sam.  Now Sam was as different from Elia as she could possibly be:  but she was quite a chow hound.  She took to sitting beside my dad's chair at meals, staring straight at him (and probably hoping for some morsels to come her way).  Dad did give her "people food" times--we all did.  That only made matters worse, however, because Sam then became a "starer extraordinaire" whenever we had our meals!

Dad reprimanded the poor dog so often that she became adept at turning her head away at the exact second that my dad looked in her direction to see if she was watching him.  That's right:  she'd turn her head in another direction immediately if Dad so much as glanced at her!  Don't tell me that dachshunds aren't intelligent.

My dad absolutely loved dogs, though, and they loved him.  Another feat that confounded our family and friends was when Dad taught Sam to say a few words, and they were actually intelligible!  Being a Southerner, Dad never said "hungry," but pronounced it "hongry."  Well, Dad taught good ol' Sam to say "hongry" just like he did, and it was hilarious!  Dad would say, "Sam, what do you want, girl?"  Sam would reply, "Hongry!"

Sam also learned to say she wanted to go out.  I remember watching Dad as he taught Sam to "talk."  He'd say, "C'mon, Sam, say 'I wanna go out.'"  Sam would growl out some unintelligible syllables, punctuated with a wagging tail.  She was trying to please him because she adored him so.  Dad would shake his head no, and say, "Sam, say you wanna 'GO OUT."  Finally, and I don't remember how long it took her to learn it, but one day Sam managed to croak out "Wanna go out."  I nearly passed out with surprise, because she clearly enunciated those words.  People loved hearing Sam "talk," and so did we.


Sam also had a litter of cute little puppies.  I recall my brother Steve just lying down in the grass that summer, letting all those little dawgs crawl all over him--they licked his face, bit his nose and ears, pulled his hair, but he loved it.  Only another dog lover would understand that!

Sadly, Sam managed to get out of Mom and Dad's fenced-in yard years later after Steve and I were grown.  Our parents lived in a subdivision only a couple of blocks from U.S. 1, an extremely busy interstate, and Sam made her way to that highway and was hit by a car.  My dad got to her too late to prevent it, but he found her in a ditch and scooped her up, taking her immediately to the vet.  He told us he was crying as he gently placed her in the back seat, telling her how sorry he was that he had "let her" get out.  She wagged her tail weakly and licked his face.  Sam didn't make it--the vet told Dad that her insides were all torn up.  This story brings tears to my eyes even now as I recall it, decades later.  She was a wonderful, gentle, and loving dachshund, and all of us loved her.

I never had another dachshund in my life until our daughter and son-in-law came to our house one evening eleven years ago, and in her hands, Holly was carrying the cutest little black-and-tan smooth doxie puppy you ever saw!  This little eight-week-old puppy was "the famous" Shadow!  I've never seen a dog who loved to chase a ball as much as Shadow did as a puppy.  Clark has often said that he nearly dislocated his shoulder at times when we babysat that doxie at our house.  Shadow just wouldn't quit for hours on end.  He's now the elder statesman in the family of our animals of two cats and two dogs.

Shadow saying "Go Tarheels!"

Duke as a puppy

And now to our own doxie, Duke.  I've written about him in several places, so I won't spend much time here.  Just suffice it to say that he fulfilled my desire to have a dog with personality--and he's done it in spades!  He's a what-a-dawg  who is just enthusiastic about life in general and loves to play--but don't laugh at him or make fun of him:  he'll "tell you off" on the spot!  He's been known to talk back, too, on occasion.  But he's so loving, a chow hound, a clown, and a nose with legs, all rolled up into our glorious family pet. So what if I spoil him?  He's my baby, you know :).

Dachshunds, I salute you!