The little dachshund, moving so fast he's not much more than a dappled blur, leaps off the back deck and races for the back fence, short little legs pumping like pistons and ears flying. It's pretty impressive until he reaches the mudflats - then I watch as he slowly, sorrowfully sinks, all the way to his belly in the soft, reddish clay and gets stuck in the sucking mud's relentless, gravitational pull. The look he gives me is comical, bewildered, a little indignant and a lot frustrated.
I'm coming, I call to him and make my way across what used to be solid ground - not landscaped or manicured or even regularly mowed but at least solid - and pull him from the quicksand-like ooze. He doesn't struggle as I carry him to a different part of the yard and set him down, doesn't protest when I take his face in both hands and patiently re-explain about the mud. Stay on this side of it, I tell him, Stay on the hard side. But of course as soon as I release him, he bolts back, circles around to the edge of the fence and promptly sinks all over again. This time he gives one of his patented hound howls, a plaintive and forlorn sound that brings an immediate choral response from the other side of the fence and suddenly the entire neighborhood is in an
uproar. I remember once reading that a single dog barking sets off a chain reaction that eventually goes 'round the whole world - it seemed unlikely but I didn't have a dachshund at the time and now I realize that pretty much anything is possible. I trek to the fence, pull him free again, and carry him back to the deck where the other two dogs wait impatiently, each wearing that familiar, long suffering expression that smart dogs reserve for not-so-smart ones.
Mind your manners, I tell them tartly, I don't see the Rhodes Scholarship people coming for either of you.
Two sinkfuls of warm water and a quarter cup of oatmeal shampoo later, I wring him out and wrap him up, towel dry him and begin to brush out his coat. He likes this part even less than the suds but he's a fine, little dog and he tolerates it with a dignified and only slightly wiggle-worm air of resignation. The process takes some time but as the one and only attempt at blow drying ended in utter panic and a most severely and lengthily held grudge, I know we must do this by hand or not at all. Finally finished, I re-attach his collar and tags, give him a well deserved biscuit and set him free - he leaps away, all fluff and soft fur, and instantly chases the first cat he sees into the next room. Predictably, the pursuit reverses itself only seconds later and
he comes running back at full speed with the cat nipping at his heels.
He may not be the sharpest tool in the shed and I've known babies to be conceived and born in less time then it took to housebreak him, but I've never known a sweeter natured or more loving animal. He's a curious mix of gentleness, timidity, playfulness and affection - a warm bundle of love with sweet eyes and an endearing face who will run at the first sign of drama or confrontation and who is totally undone by a raised voice. He curls up beside me, falling into an untroubled sleep with his head resting on my hip and I rest my hand on his side, feeling his even, steady breathing and wondering about his dreams.
Two sinkfuls of warm water and a quarter cup of oatmeal shampoo later, I wring him out and wrap him up, towel dry him and begin to brush out his coat. He likes this part even less than the suds but he's a fine, little dog and he tolerates it with a dignified and only slightly wiggle-worm air of resignation. The process takes some time but as the one and only attempt at blow drying ended in utter panic and a most severely and lengthily held grudge, I know we must do this by hand or not at all. Finally finished, I re-attach his collar and tags, give him a well deserved biscuit and set him free - he leaps away, all fluff and soft fur, and instantly chases the first cat he sees into the next room. Predictably, the pursuit reverses itself only seconds later and
he comes running back at full speed with the cat nipping at his heels.
He may not be the sharpest tool in the shed and I've known babies to be conceived and born in less time then it took to housebreak him, but I've never known a sweeter natured or more loving animal. He's a curious mix of gentleness, timidity, playfulness and affection - a warm bundle of love with sweet eyes and an endearing face who will run at the first sign of drama or confrontation and who is totally undone by a raised voice. He curls up beside me, falling into an untroubled sleep with his head resting on my hip and I rest my hand on his side, feeling his even, steady breathing and wondering about his dreams.
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