My husband and I are big-dog people. Wait, that doesn’t sound quite right. That is to say, we are not people who are also big dogs; we just prefer them over small ones. Although I do have a rather long snout and whenever my husband hears the metallic pop-shhh of a freshly opened can of Natural Lite, he does exhibit classic Pavlovian responses—wagging tail and excessive drooling.
Throughout our long marriage, we have always been owned by male German shepherd dogs, so I never thought I would ever consider having a little, yappy, ankle-biting dog. A dachshund. A female wiener dog. Actually, I didn’t consider it; little Sweetie was part of our inheritance, left to my husband and I by my late mother-in-law, Betty.
After losing her aged poodle Ginger, Betty was susceptible to the charms of almost any brown-eyed, fur-bearing creature. She awoke one morning to the sound of a small, filthy dog barking in the back yard of her home. One of the street people in our town had deposited the matted, flea-ridden mutt over Betty’s back fence and had gone off to do whatever street people do during the day. I suppose he intended to retrieve her at day’s end. But, after a trip to the vet’s office for a check-up and shots, and a much needed bath and shave at the groomer, little Sweetie was now recognizable as a long-haired dachshund. Her former owner did return for his dog several days later but my feisty mother-in-law refused to give up her new companion.
The rest of our family was glad that Betty and Sweetie had found one another, but after having big dogs for so long we really didn’t warm up to this new addition right away. I mean, she yapped and she was a non-stop face-licker—I couldn’t stand it. I never had a dog that burrowed under the covers to sleep or needed stairs to reach the furniture (in her later years.) That must have meant I was a big-dog snob who merely didn’t recognize the virtues of this little dog. She tried with all her might to be liked and we all just tolerated her.
During their nearly fourteen years together, the two were inseparable, and as Betty aged, so did Sweetie. Their walks became shorter and Sweetie’s steps began to match the halting steps of her mistress. They were two senior citizens, each tethered to the other at the end of a long red leash. Together their arthritis grew more painful and the cataracts on their eyes thickened. Thanks to Miss Clairol, my mother-in-law’s hair remained Lucille Ball red while Sweetie’s was allowed to turn a silvery gray down the middle of her head and back. If she wasn’t kept clipped, she looked like a skunk.
As Betty’s health deteriorated, we all began to take turns walking her dog. I noticed that Sweetie was more energetic and full of pep on those outings—chasing lizards that skittered across our path, barking at people riding bikes on the street, lunging at squirrels. She seemed to be transformed by the vibes of younger people and reverted to her slower self in the presence of her mistress.
Recognizing that her time on Earth was about to be finished, Betty fretted from her hospital bed about the fate of her beloved dog. “Don’t worry,” I reassured. “We’ll take good care of her.” We planned to take Sweetie for one last visit (allowed by Hospice), but sadly Betty passed away shortly thereafter.
I thought the dog would mourn terribly and possibly not eat after her loss, but she seemed to make the adjustment quite well. In fact, all she wanted to do was eat. Her way of coping, I suppose. I now had to get used to waking up at 5 a.m. (4 a.m. after the time changed) to feed this four-legged eating machine. Ignoring her was a waste of time; she barked until I acquiesced. The good thing was I was motivated to hit the gym early every day.
