An interview with a 14-year-old dachshund

I am blessed to be surrounded by long-lived females. Last week my mother turned 102. Today, our dachshund, Bonnie, turns 14.

This morning, following a steak and eggs breakfast (for her, coffee for me), Bonnie and I sat down for a birthday chat.

TD: What’s your secret to living this long?

Bonnie: Exercise. Specifically, chasing lizards around the lanai. And plenty of sleep – at least 23 hours a day.

TD: What is your proudest achievement?

Bonnie: Overcoming submissive urination. It was humiliating. For my first 10 years I couldn't help letting go whenever someone reached down to pet me. 

TD: How'd you do it?

Bonnie: Kegel exercises. I learned about them watching Dr. Oz.

TD: What’s your biggest regret?

Bonnie: That I tried to bite that sweet lady from Dachshund Rescue who drove all the way from Miami to see if you and mom would be suitable foster parents for homeless dogs. I was annoyed you were even considering it.

TD: Yeah, thanks to you we didn’t get the dachshund we had applied for.

Bonnie: I have always regretted what I did. That dachshund would have been lucky to wind up with you and mom. You’re pushovers.

TD: You fell into the pool yesterday. If I hadn’t been right there to fish you out you would have drowned. What happened?

Bonnie: I had been drinking.

TD: Yes, from your water bowl. It’s not like it was full of vodka.

Bonnie: Perhaps I’m losing my sight in my old age. Or my timing. Or my balance. Or, just maybe and I doubt this has occurred to you, I wanted to take a swim. It’s hot here in Florida, especially when you're wearing a coat 24/7.

TD: What are your goals for the next 14 years?

Bonnie: To see the rest of this marvelous country we call home. I’ve only been to 15 states, so I still have 34 to go.

TD: Bonnie, there are 50 states. You have 35 to go, not 34.

Bonnie: I’m on the TSA’s “no fly” list after that unfortunate incident on JetBlue in which I escaped from the carry-on you had crammed me into, ran up the aisle and jumped into the lap of an old lady just as the plane was taking off, so I’m resigned to the fact I’ll never make it to Hawaii unless, of course, we take a cruise.

TD: Speaking of states, you’ve lived in two – Connecticut and, for the last two years, full-time in Florida. Which is your favorite?

Bonnie: There are always stories on TV about dogs who move and miraculously find their way back to their previous homes. Have you ever seen one about a dog who attempted to go back to Connecticut? No, and you never will. Nobody in their right mind would want to go back to a place where packs of coyotes roam through the suburbs and deer ticks carry Lyme disease not to mention it has the worst winters north of the South Pole.

TD: What’s the one thing you couldn’t live without?

Bonnie: The Burberry leash mom brought me from London.

TD: You’ve seen lots of changes in 14 years. What stands out the most?

Bonnie: How the men in this family have aged. Ben had just graduated from high school the day you brought me home. Now he's a practicing lawyer – has been for seven years – with a kid of his own. Stuart was about to start his sophomore year of high school. He got his graduate degree in ‘09 and has been working ever since. He was – I'm sure you know this but we've never talked about it – the first man I ever slept with.

TD: Yeah, the boys have changed big-time.

Bonnie: Nobody in the family has changed more than you. You were in your forties and running your own business. Now you’re 63, retired, a grandpa, and interviewing a dachshund in a pathetic attempt to find something to occupy your time. 

TD: What about mom? Hasn't she has changed?

Bonnie: Not one bit. Like all the females in this family, she's ageless.

TD: You’ve had two dachshund brothers – Clyde, for your first two years, and Billy Ray for the last 12. What have you learned from them?

Bonnie: That females are smarter and more capable than males. No wonder Hillary has so much self-confidence. Bitches rule!

TD: Thanks for your time, Bonnie.

Bonnie: You’re welcome. Now leave me alone. I need my beauty rest.

Diary of a Mad House Dachshund

By Bonnie Dryden

7:15 a.m. Alarm goes off. Another sunny day in Florida.

7:16 a.m.  Ixnay that. When dad opens the door, it’s raining. He nudges me outside with his foot. I shuffle out, pretend to squat, then run back inside. “Good girl,” he says.

7:24 a.m. Breakfast – two tablespoons of boiled chicken, one tablespoon of Cesar Canine Cuisine Sunrise Smoked Bacon & Egg in Meaty Juices, side order of kibble.

7:28 a.m. I go to the sliding glass door and start barking, pretending to see something in the back yard. Idiot brother Billy Ray, who is picking at his breakfast, runs to the door barking hysterically. While he is barking at nothing, I double back to the kitchen and, as I have done every morning for 11 years, eat all the food in his bowl. 

8:16 a.m.  Peeing on the Aubusson carpet under the dining room table, I see through the window that the sun has come out.

8:18 a.m.  Outside again to do #2.

8:19 a.m. Serial killers trying to pass themselves off as garbage collectors appear at end of driveway. I chase them away, saving my family from certain death.

9:34 a.m.  Fall asleep atop corner cushion of family room sectional sofa.

10:14 a.m. Men appear on golf course behind house carrying clubs. It is obvious they intend to beat my family to death. I growl, snarl and throw myself against the door like Cujo. Terrified, they drive off in search of victims not protected by a guard dog.

10:22 a.m. Curl up with Billy on lanai under ceiling fan. 

11:11 a.m. Billy corners a lizard and eats it.  

12:32 p.m. Man with hedge clippers appears in neighbor’s back yard, planning to use them to carve up my family. I start barking. Twenty minutes later he flees.

12:55 p.m. Ride with dad to store to pick up Tylenol. He says he has a headache.

1:18 p.m. Returning from store, I pee in front yard.

1:20 p.m. Afternoon treat – Cesar Canine Cuisine Softies Filet Mignon bite.

1:45: Terrorist disguised as postal worker attempts to push envelope containing deadly poison through slot in front door. I lunge at her hand. I hear her swearing she’s going to file a complaint. With whom? The FBI? They’d give me a medal!

2:07 p.m. Exhausted from fending off killers – mom and dad should think about moving us to a safer neighborhood – I fall asleep on sofa.

3:53 p.m. Awoken by the sound of Billy vomiting lizard carcass. I eat it.

4:35 p.m. Neighbor comes over for cocktails on the lanai and brings his spoiled pug. I ignore the bitch as she and Billy run around and around the pool until they collapse.

5:15 p.m. Dinner – half can of Cesar Canine Cuisine Rosemary Chicken with Spring Vegetables in Meaty Juices and kibble chaser.

5:25 p.m. Go outside and do #1 and #2.

5:34 p.m. Fall asleep on sofa.

7:00 p.m. Supervise mom and dad as they eat dinner. Billy and I have a pact. I supervise dinner on all days that end with “y” and promise I’ll share any food that falls on the floor. He truly is a moron.

7:30-8:00 p.m. Watch Jeopardy. It has been dumbed down in recent years. Ever notice how each answer now contains two, sometimes three, clues? “Known as the father of our country, America’s first president is buried at Mt. Vernon.” A poodle could answer that one.

10:10 p.m. Go outside. Pee. 

10:15-11:23 p.m. Rest head on dad's chest as we read in bed. We are on a Theodore Dreiser kick, halfway through his most obscure novel, The Genius. Neither as riveting as An American Tragedy nor as tightly written as Sister Carrie but it's in the public domain so it cost dad nothing to download. He's so cheap.

11:24 p.m. Regurgitate lizard remains on dad's chest. He jumps out of bed, runs into bathroom and turns on shower.

11:41 p.m. Lights out.


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Op Ed: We Weiners have feelings, too

Today's Op Ed is written by my dachshund, Bonnie, whose opinions are her own.

When John F. Kennedy visited Berlin in 1963, he stood in front of the wall dividing that beleaguered city and declared solidarity with its citizens by announcing, "Ich bin ein Berliner" – I am a Berliner. 

The crowd went wild.

What the press didn’t report is that the president of the United States had just told a million people, “I am a jelly doughnut.” (That’s what “Berliner” means in German. If he meant to say “a Berliner” as in “a citizen of Berlin,” he should have omitted the “ein.” But I digress.)

Well here’s my personal message for beleaguered New York mayoral candidate Anthony Weiner who, this past week, has been the butt of endless jokes because of his last name which just happens to be slang for the part of his anatomy he allegedly photographed and texted to several women.

My message is this: Anthony, I share your pain. I stand by you. Because Ich bin ein Weiner, too.

To be specific, I am a dachshund, a breed that has been called many hurtful names over the years.

We have been called "Stubborn."

We have been labeled as “Dumb” by so-called experts who rank us in the lower one-third of the 79 recognized breeds in terms of intelligence. (If I’m so dumb, how was I able to write this Op-Ed? Have you ever met a Labrador retriever or poodle half as articulate? Of course you haven't. Most are functionally illiterate.)

We have been called “Hot Dogs.”

We have been called “Sausages.” My own mother calls me a “Devious Sausage” whenever I trick my brother Billy Ray, who is also a dachshund and her favorite dog, out of his breakfast, as I do every morning. (Billy, I freely admit, would rank # 80 out of the 79 breeds if he were a breed unto himself. That’s probably why mom is so over-protective and takes his side in every dispute.)

But of all the many hurtful names we have been called, the one we dachshunds find most hateful is the name we share in common with Anthony – Weiner.

Please, please, please, I hope all you readers understand that we dachshunds cannot help the way we are shaped. Many centuries ago German farmers bred us to dig badgers out of the deep narrow burrows in which they hide. As a result, we have elongated bodies and short, stubby legs that inconsiderate people like to blurt out remind them of a product made by Oscar Mayer.

You cannot imagine how much it hurts to hear someone say, “Oh, look at that cute little Weiner."

If you are overweight, how would you feel if someone called you a “Lard-ass?” If you are underweight, how would you like to be referred to as a “Pretzel?”

See what I mean?

So, Anthony, on behalf of thousands of your fellow Weiners who have found ourselves the punchlines of cruel jokes that rob us of our dignity, I urge you to hold your head erect and, above all, not pull out.  

As Felix Frankfurter, my favorite Supreme Court justice, once wrote, “If one starts with the assumption that, in the absence of specific congressional authority, a fixed rule of law precludes contracting officers from providing in a government contract terms reasonably calculated to assure its performance even though there be no money loss through a particular default, there is no problem.” 

I don’t know what the hell he was saying but the fact that someone named Frankfurter made it to the Supreme Court is proof positive we Weiners can be anything we want to be … including mayor of New York.

Traveling with Fido this summer? Ask the dog travel expert!

Somewhere in the Carolinas:
 Bonnie and Billy Ray snoring on my wife's lap. 

My wife and I make at least two round trips between Florida and Connecticut every year. While it would be cheaper and faster to fly, we drive in order to bring our elderly dachshunds, Bonnie and Billy Ray, with us.

Knowing I am an expert when it comes to traveling with dogs, dozens of readers have written to ask my advice on traveling with their own pooches during this summer vacation season.

Here are my answers to some of the most commonly asked questions.

Q: “Do I need to buy any particular type of vehicle to travel with my dogs?”

A: We bought an SUV specifically for our dogs’ comfort. Like so many neurotic small breeds, they tend to become anxious whenever they are separated from us, so we figured we would fold down the rear seat and place their bed immediately behind the front seat. However, if your dogs are like ours they will insist on sitting on the lap of the person in the front passenger seat so you might as well buy a sporty two-seater. A Mercedes SLS AMG is a good choice. If you put the top down, tie their leashes to the gear shifter so they won’t blow away and ruin your vacation.

Q: “What if my dogs are too big to sit on the passenger’s lap?”

Then you will need a vehicle with both a front seat (for the dogs) and back seat (for the second passenger).

Q: “We refuse to leave our dogs in a hot car while we go into a sit-down restaurant so we wind up eating all our road meals at McDonald’s or Arby’s. It’s tiresome. It’s unhealthy. Do you have any alternative suggestions?”

A: Burger King. For limited time this summer, original chicken sandwiches are just $1.04 each.

Q: “This is a theoretical question. What if, while you were eating your $1.04 chicken sandwiches on the patio of a Burger King, you felt sorry for your dogs, who had refused to eat all day but were acting hungry? And what if you ordered two plain hamburgers for them, remembering that Burger King burgers are flame-broiled, not fried, so you assumed the burgers couldn’t harm the dogs’ sensitive digestive systems? And what if, while you were staying at a hotel that night, one of the dogs suffered a diarrhea attack causing an odor so awful it made the other dog vomit?”

A: I have two suggestions. 1.) Travel with an Oreck steamer to remove any carpet stains. If an odor persists after steaming, try rubbing the juice from a jar of peach salsa (available at roadside stands throughout the Carolinas and Georgia) onto the steamed area and that will disguise any untoward aroma long enough for you to get into the next state. 2). If you know from experience such an unfortunate accident might occur, you can always check into the hotel under an assumed name and pay cash so your credit card won’t be hit with cleaning charges. This is a theoretical answer, of course.

Q: “Can you recommend any hotels that welcome dogs?” 

A: No, but if you will email me, I’ll tell you the name of one you should avoid.

Another Christmas in Connecticut

Today's guest blogger, Topanga Dryden

My grandfather, who usually writes this blog, is under the weather today. He says he was over-served New Year’s Eve and that, if he lives to be 100, he never wants to hear the term "butterscotch schnapps" again, so he graciously invited me to be his guest blogger. I accepted with pleasure. 

My name is Topanga. I was adopted from the Atlanta pound when I was 8 weeks old by my dad, Stuart, the son of Mr. and Mrs. Butterscotch Schnapps. The pound people told dad they thought I was a beagle. Two months later, by which time it was obvious to everyone I’m no more a beagle than I’m one of the Kardashians, my grandparents had a DNA test run on me. Turns out I am 50% Great Pyrenees, 35% Italian greyhound and 15% Parson Russell Terrier. Not surprisingly, because they have two wiener dogs -- my Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Billy Ray (both complete morons, by the way) -- my grandparents think I’m the most intelligent dog they’ve ever known and treat me like a princess.

They feed me treats all day. Address me in baby-talk. (It’s infantile but then, so are they after years of living with dachshunds, which are ranked 72nd out of 79 breeds for intelligence.)  They think it's cute when I lounge around and drool on their furniture, as if it were my own house. They’re elderly. So are Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Billy. It will be my house someday soon and when it is, the first things to go will be those stupid baby gates they have everywhere to keep the dachshunds out of rooms with good rugs.

I live in Washington D.C. with my dad, but my grandparents love having me stay with them. They live in Florida most of the year but, when they were driving back to their place in Connecticut for the holidays, they swung by my dad’s apartment, picked me up and brought me here to the frozen Arctic where I’ve been since early December.

It’s been a quiet but altogether pleasant visit. I’ve gone to the dog park a few times. Romped with a neighbor dog, Virgil, who, like me, is from Georgia. (We reminisced about old times there that are most assuredly not forgotten.) I received a number of presents for Christmas and didn't have to give any in return. Grandpa fed me some filet mignon when the dachshunds’ backs were turned.

There were no unfortunate incidents like there were Christmas before last when, having endured Uncle Billy’s perverted licking for days on end, I snapped under the tree and swallowed his head in one gulp. Grandpa and dad had to pry my mouth open while grandma and my Uncle Ben pulled Billy out by the back legs, as if they were delivering a breech baby. That was, everyone said, the most memorable Christmas ever.

Dad came up to Connecticut for New Year’s and he and I are heading back to D.C. in a few hours. While it will be lonely all day in that apartment when he’s at work, I’m looking forward to not having to smell Aunt Bonnie’s foul breath (if I told you what I saw her eat the other day you’d probably puke all over your keyboard), listen to Uncle Billy’s neurotic yapping, or put up with that stupid baby talk. Truth be told, I’m glad I’m not related to this family by blood. They’re all insane.

Here's wishing you and yours a wonderful New Year!

Driving Miss Bonnie

Are we there yet? Billy Ray (top) and Bonnie.

I'm in Florida. It's our official domicile, where we spend most of our time. We bought this house five years ago with the idea that, when I eased out of my job, we would sell the house in Connecticut we have owned since 1991 and move here full time.

Then the real estate bubble burst and the market dried up.

So, for the foreseeable future, we have two homes we shuttle between.

Tonight I'll pack up the car and tomorrow, bright and early, we'll be on our way up north for the summer.

It would be easier, faster and cheaper to fly but for our neurotic dachshunds, Bonnie and Billy Ray. They behave so badly on planes that we drive -- especially after that unfortunate incident four years ago.

Freaked out by the roar of the engines as the plane was thundering down the runway, Bonnie clawed her way out of the soft-sided doggie carrier in which she was stashed under the seat in front of us, and ran up the aisle. At the moment of lift-off, she jumped onto the lap of an elderly passenger, who screamed like she had been attacked by a knife-wielding towel head. An angry flight attendant threatened to have the pilot land the plane and have us arrested. I actually think we're on JetBlue's "no fly" list.

So we drive. And drive. And drive. It's a 1,342-mile route we could probably drive blindfolded. We stop at the same gas stations, the same McDonald's, the same Arby's (where the dogs split a medium Beef 'N Cheddar, hold the cheddar and the bun), the same Dunkin' Donuts, and overnight in the same fleabag Best Western.

Billy likes the car. He nods off by the time we reach the interstate and wakes up only when we stop.

But Bonnie, who is the better behaved of the two when not in a vehicle, is the very definition of hell on wheels. She whines for 121 miles until the first rest stop near Tampa, then spends the rest of the trip climbing back and forth every three or four minutes between the comfort of her bed in the back seat and the security of my wife's lap in the front, nudging the gear selector each time she shifts position. If I have to turn on the wipers, she goes bat-shit, barking, growling, lunging and drooling like Cujo, apparently under the impression a monster is trying to break through the windshield to kill us.

She barks at trucks. And motorcycles. And bridges. And toll collectors. And McDonald's drive-thru windows. When I was stopped for speeding in South Carolina, she tried to bite the cop as he handed me a ticket. He told me I needed to get my dog under control. Fat chance.

And so, off we go. Hopefully we'll arrive around around 7 p.m. Thursday in Connecticut where, Accuweather reports, it was 55 degrees this morning. Last time I experienced temperatures that cold I was in Connecticut. In July. The weather up there sucks.

But what the hell. It's home.

At least for the next few months.