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.
