My Dogs

All right, you’ve heard enough stories about me. Now it’s time to hear about the really important people- my dogs.

I love my dogs. They’re both dachshunds, and they’re best friends.

This is Frankie, short for Frankfurter. He’s the older of the two, at roughly 8 years old. He’s a purebred smooth-haired mini dachshund. We got him as a puppy. My mom found him on Craigslist for $100, which is actually pretty cheap for a purebred. He was the last of his litter and the seller wanted him off his hands. So we took him home in a little box and he’s been home ever since.

He’s the quieter of the two, partially due to his age. He’s fine with lying around all day, sunbathing in rays of light from the windows, curling up on a pillow exactly his size or burrowing into a blanket like a burrito. Dachshunds were bred as burrowing dogs, to sniff out badgers and other tunneling animals, so both dogs like to burrow into blankets and lay completely wrapped there. We’ve learned not to sit on blankets unless we check to make sure there’s not a dog in them first.

This is Chewie, short for Chewbacca. He’s younger, barely older than a puppy, about 3 years old. We have no idea if he’s purebred or not, but he seems to be at least mostly wire-haired dachshund. Their hair grows a lot longer than this, but we trim his fur so that he doesn’t become an absolute mop of muddy tangles. He’s a rescue- we weren’t planning on having another dog for a little while, even though Frankie was beginning to get lonely. There’s a story behind how we got him.

My older brother used to mow lawns and do yard care as a side business. One of the families he worked for had a really muddy, sad-looking dog who would follow him around the yard to be petted. One day, the owners of the property saw him petting the dog, and asked if my brother wanted him. If not, they said, they would be taking him to the pound. The dog had been a gift for their daughter, who hadn’t wanted to take care of him, so they’d just been leaving him outside and not really paying him any attention. My brother said he’d have to ask my mom, so he did. I was with my mom when she got the phone call, but I don’t remember her exact responses. I can only imagine what my brother would have said: “So, heyyy, Mom… do you want another dog?”

Long story short, we ended up taking him in, trimming his fur, and adopting him into our family. He and Frankie didn’t get along at first, but once Chewie learned not to play with the older dog’s toys or steal his food, they got along fine. Now, they’re best friends, practically inseparable.

Whereas Frankie can lay around all day, Chewie is a rambunctious bundle of energy. He’s a complete wild card. Half of his time on the couch is spent draped across the back like a cat, or attentively looking out the window for the slightest sign of a squirrel. If he sees one, he’ll whine at the door until one of us lets him out, and then he’s off like a speeding, barking bullet towards the rodent. He can stay by the fence for hours, running back and forth, watching the squirrel. If he starts to lose interest, the squirrel will taunt him, running along the fence and waving its tail and chattering at him. Sometimes Frankie will run outside and bark with him, but lose interest and go sniff around elsewhere after a minute or two.

Chewie is also a notorious digger. We have a garden in our backyard, as well as a good-sized lawn… but some parts of it are absolutely riddled with holes. He doesn’t even usually dig to bury anything, he just enjoys it. Unfortunately for everyone, Oregon is often muddy, and so he’ll come inside with his entire front legs and chest completely caked in mud (or, in the dryer seasons, just dirt). He is a master at getting into trouble. One time, he ate a garter snake in our garden- then promptly threw it up all over my Mom’s nice new rug. Then he spent the rest of the day outside.

Frankie has his own moments, though. For one, he absolutely despises water. This means whether it’s going outside in the rain, or being forced to have a bath, he’ll try to get out of it. If we ask him to go outside while it’s raining, he’ll just stare despondently out the door until we gently place him on the doorstep. If we even say the word “bath,” he runs and hides in his bed until we pick him up to put him in the sink and wash him. The most scared I’ve ever seen him of water, however, was when we took him to the beach. He was having fun at first, tearing up the sand, sniffing at seagulls, looking around at all of the sights to see and scents to smell. Then, he saw the ocean. His claws dug into the sand, he stopped abruptly despite the pull of the leash, and absolutely refused to go any further. I could practically hear him thinking, what is this? Why have you brought me here, to the mother of all bathtubs? He stayed far away from the ocean for the rest of the beach trip.

I have a ton more stories and pictures I could share, but I think I’ll try and keep this somewhat brief. Suffice it to say, I love my dogs, and they love us, and they love each other. I really miss them and I can’t wait to see them over Spring Break.