Note to readers: I asked my dachshund, Bonnie (above), to write today's post. Happily, she agreed.
Today is my 12
th birthday. You might think I have
a cushy life but let me tell you – I had to work hard to get where I am.
It pains me to admit it but I was born in an Arkansas puppy mill. The moment my birth mother licked
away the sac in which I had been delivered and I opened my eyes and realized I
was living behind a rusted out trailer inhabited by hillbillies right out of
“Deliverance,” I knew I had to get out of that hellhole.
Mercifully, I didn’t have to wait long. Eight weeks later, I
found myself in the back of a truck bound for someplace called Connecticut. Where
was I going? What should I expect? One of my fellow travelers, a Chihuahua, said
she had heard Connecticut was above the Arctic Circle and frightfully cold –
even in summer. Another said it was a state where, inexplicably, women wear no
make-up. (Both rumors, by the way, turned out to be true.)
A few days later I was off-loaded at a pet shop in Danbury. This
wasn’t your typical pet shop in which people have to ask attendants to hand
them a puppy. No, this store was one of those kumbaya places where puppies are
placed in open pens on the floor so people can lean down and pick them up. I
overheard the owner tell someone, “It socializes them.” What a crock.
I weighed, at that point, two pounds. You can’t begin to imagine
how terrifying it is to have a 200-pound human lean down, scoop you up, and examine
you like you’re a papaya they are thinking about buying, but it happened
hundreds of times. I finally became so terrified that, whenever I saw a hand
reaching into my pen, my bladder let go – a condition eventually diagnosed as “submissive
urination” that, thanks to Kegel exercises, I was able to conquer years later.
Day in, day out, I was tortured by people who picked me up, held
me momentarily, then put me back. Sometimes one would leave the store having
bought another puppy. I didn’t mind losing out to other breeds, but it hurt like hell
when someone chose another dachshund because I knew I had more to offer. But everyone said I had either a) an ugly coat,
b) a sway back or c) both.
In mid-August, the store marked me down as distressed
merchandise. One afternoon not long after I went on sale, a man with a mustache saw
me curled up in the depressive ball in which I spent my days, picked me up and took
me into a back room. I was afraid he was going to molest me but no -- he was babbling
baby talk. He sounded like an idiot. I acted interested, wagged my tail and
licked his face when, in fact, I felt … nothing. I knew that he, too, would
leave me like all the others had and, after a half hour or so, he did.
But later that day he came back with a blonde woman, two
teenage boys and an adult dachshund named Clyde. The store owner let them take
me outside. They said they wanted to see how I interacted with Clyde who, I
immediately realized, was a simpleton I would be able to dominate completely. I
forced myself to act cute knowing that, if I did, there was a good chance I’d
found my golden ticket. The man whipped out a credit card and bought me.
The house they took me to was a pleasant surprise -- much nicer than the trailer the hillbillies had lived in. And the people, even though they talked baby talk, seemed kind.
Shortly after my first birthday, mustache man took me to
Obedience School. I knew from the get-go it was a waste of time and money. The
four humans were already obedient to my every whim, but once again, I played
along. On graduation day the instructor told the man, “I do believe that’s the
brightest little dachshund I ever saw.”
No shit, Sherlock.
Clyde died two years after my arrival and was replaced by
another dachshund, Billy Ray, who, if anything, is even dumber. Every morning,
when the man places bowls of food in front of us, I gobble mine down, then run
to the back door and bark as if I see something outside. Billy follows yapping
hysterically, even though he has no idea why I’m barking. I then double back,
and eat his food while he is still barking at something that isn't there. Fool someone once, shame on you. Fool
him twice, shame on him. Fool him every single day for nine and a half years and
you’re contending with a bona-fide moron.
For the last six years, ever since I refused to go outside during
a Connecticut blizzard (which in that particular instance, took place in
October), I’ve wintered in Florida. I’ve seen 19 states from the comfort of the
SUV dad bought to transport Billy and me after
that unfortunate incident in which I was placed on JetBlue’s no fly list after
escaping from the carry-on bag in which I was being transported.
I’ve dined in outdoor restaurants in Miami, Atlanta and D.C. where once, as I was strolling down Pennsylvania Avenue, Nancy Pelosi walked by with her security detail and smiled at me, one bitch to another. I smiled back.
The man, who was in advertising, used my photo in a Wal-Mart ad. I
would have preferred to appear in an ad for Saks or Bloomingdales.
On the other hand, I know the hillbillies probably shop at Wal-Mart, so I hope
they saw the ad and realize where I wound up. They, no doubt, are still living in
their rusted out trailer, breeding puppies they have to sell to put coon or
squirrel or whatever it is hillbillies eat on their table. For my birthday
brunch this morning I was served Cesar® Sunrise with Smoked Bacon & Egg.
For dinner I’ll have Cesar® Filet Mignon with Meaty Juices, along with a few
slices of Granny Smith Apple.
This is my second post on this blog and, eventually when the
man becomes tired of writing it, I’ll probably take it over. God knows he needs more readers after his last post about the Rolling Stones tour which was (and rightfully so in my opinion) the most lightly-read post of the more than 100 he has written. I can do better than that.
The teenagers went off to college and are now 30 and 27. The younger
one acquired an Amazon of a dog, a mongrel he named Topanga. Like Billy Ray,
she’s not real bright. The older one and his wife recently adopted a cat they’ve
named Georgia. I have to admit I’m not crazy about having a family member who represents
an altogether different species, but it’s happening more and more these days in
our increasingly diverse society. I’ll reserve judgment until I meet her. One
thing I know for sure. She has to be smarter than Billy or Topanga.
I’ve lived through 9/11, the Great Recession, and watched
every single episode of Boardwalk Empire.
When the man reads, as he does every night, I rest my head on his chest. He
thinks I’m dozing but I’m soaking up every word. We just finished “Colonel
Roosevelt,” the last volume of Edmund Morris’ Teddy Roosevelt trilogy. Teddy
hunted animals and killed them for fun. Asshole.
I’ll spend today as I do most days – lying by the pool,
listening to the gentle splash of the waterfall and barking at golfers who
appear on the course behind our house. This morning I overheard the man telling
the blonde he might take me out for a manicure for my birthday.
In human years I’m 61. That’s the same age the mustache man who delivered me from that God-awful pet store is. Over the last 12 years we have both developed fatty lumps and our hair has turned white but I look better for my age than he does – everyone says so.
With the exception of my first six months, I’ve had 12 good
years.
I can’t wait to see what the next 12 will bring.
