A Month Full of
Dogs
(to one degree
or another)
As
most of you probably already know, I belong to a breed-specific rescue group,
New Mexico Dachshund Rescue. Mind you, this isn’t so much because I adore
dachshunds as a breed (although I do. I think it’s because they’re so funny
looking) as that they seem to be attracted to me. Kind of like a steel
fragments are attracted to a magnet, cats to dead birds, and stuff like that.
However,
the fact that I attract dachshunds is the reason last month was so full of the
little creatures. It all started with my three foster children, Cindy, Santana
and Mr. Sausage. Some kind person drove them all up to Albuquerque for a
special NMDR Adoptathon held at the PetCo on San Mateo. I was intensely
grateful not to have to foster those dogs any longer, not because I didn’t care
for them, but because, with the exception of Santana who’s about as big as a
peanut, they were big, heavy dogs (for dachshunds) and used to drag me all over
the place. I’m not as young as I used to be (more about that later), and I’m
kind of semi-crippled because of a deteriorating spine, so I’ve decided only to
foster small or elderly dachshunds from now on. But it all worked out. Cindy,
Santana and Mr. Sausage (whose name is now Jimmy Dean) were all adopted either
at the Adoptathon or shortly thereafter, and I went to Albuquerque to join in
the fun. And it was fun. Lots of nice people and a whole bunch of oddly shaped
doggies.
That
meant my own personal family of dogs had dwindled to a mere five. Until Jacob,
the vet tech at the place I take my dogs, found a simply gorgeous dachshund puppy at the side of the highway. It looked as
if she had been dumped, she was full of fleas, skinny as a toothpick, and had
claws Freddy Kruger would envy. Jacob decided to keep the dog, whom he named
Jazzy. The name fits her. Jacob had never had a dachshund before, and I guess
he wasn’t prepared for the dachshund temperament, which is stubborn, not
particularly smart (don’t tell my dogs I said that) and, often, wildly
aggressive. When he couldn’t stop Jazzy from going after his standard French
poodle, he asked if I could take Jazzy. Well, what could I say? So then I had
six dogs. Again.
Then
Heidi, my oldest wiener, and the very last piebald in my family, got too sick
to eat, and I had to have her put down on November 26. This wasn’t unexpected,
but it was sad. And my canine family shrank back down to five again.
Until
November 27, the day before Thanksgiving, when I got a mega-urgent summons to
check out a dog that was scheduled to be euthanized at Roswell Animal Control.
If the dog was enough of a dachshund to pass for one, I was asked to bring her
home and foster her; if she wasn’t dachshund enough to pass, I guess I was
supposed to leave her there to die. You can probably guess what happened next.
My family of dogs is back up to six again. But Cookie, the rescue doggie, is
NOT going to stay with me. She’s going to be adopted by some kind person who
really needs a darling little part-dachshund puppy. I’m taking applications.
I
guess one of my Thanksgiving thank-yous went to the dogs in my life. I’ll be
even more thankful when somebody adopts Cookie.
Then,
on the 29th, came my umpty-umpth birthday. The minister of my church
asked how old I was in dog years, and I figured it out. I’m 476 years old in
dog years, and I’m feeling every one of them, in case you wondered. But I got a
lovely pictorial gift from my younger daughter Robin, her husband Gilbert, and
my younger grandson, Riki:
One
good thing: on December 9, I’ll be flying to North Carolina (if the creek don’t
rise and no snow falls anywhere) to visit my grandson, granddaughter-in-law,
and two great grands! Now there’s
something to be really thankful for.
My contest for this
month is choose-your-own book. Send me an email with your name and address, and
if Bam-Bam selects your name from the special contest doggie dish, you get to
pick your own book. I’m too tired to pick one for you. My email address is alice@aliceduncan.net
