I have a miniature dachshund puppy, Daphne. I think she is charming. Sarah thinks she looks like a football and regularly speaks of kicking her. Although I adore my dog and Sarah has never met her in person, there are days when a swift kick could seem logical even the most docile of PETA members. She is a test of temperance.
This morning I woke up to her crying in another room. If this were my apartment it would be either the kitchen or the bathroom because I live in a shoebox, but because we are staying with my parents, so there are more options for destruction.
What I didn’t know when I decided on this particular breed, was that they have a penchant for pushing balls under things like couches, dressers, television stands, etc. and then howling at them because they cannot reach under to retrieve them with their stumpy “arms.” They look around frantically as if they have no idea how the ball got under this extremely low piece of furniture, then begin to call for a stupid human to come and rescue them so that they can repeat the process.
By about 8 AM she had pushed her green, squeaky ball into a darkened abyss in my parents’ room. This was not her first time losing a toy beneath a piece of furniture but it is the first time my mom has called out, “Your dog is stuck under the treadmill.” She and my father called about three times before I realized it wasn’t a joke. Bleary-eyed, I fell out of bed and walked across the hallway. My parents were both on their knees peering under the lower end of the conveyer belt. I joined them. Her little brown eyes caught a bit of light coming in from the window, her stubby front legs were splayed and her mouth was open howling. When our eyes met, she froze. Of course, I did what any good mother would do when they caught their child underneath a fallen jar of cookies… I burst into laughter. Daphne was very quiet, as she stretched, stuck in a Chinese finger trap of her own design.
Reaching out for her trunk I tried to slide her straight out, but she didn’t budge. I tried, pulling her sideways, but she wasn’t moving either. She started to cry again. Despite my pinched nerve, I decided the only way to get her out was to lift the back of the treadmill. So with what I thought was going to require superhuman strength, I braced myself for a painful lift, but it only turned out to be about 30 lbs of force to raise it enough that she could crawl out. Rescued.
About fifteen minutes after that incident she decided to engage in another one of her old tricks– stealing dirty laundry. She selected a pair of underwear from the pile, looked at me with that impish sparkle in her eyes and took off down the stairs. Of course I chased her. The last time I didn’t I had to toss the garment because she had torn a large, un-mendable hole and it looked like a prop from a cartoon, jagged edges and all. So there was a chase but breakfast and clothing repair ensued. She is currently sleeping at my feet, worn out from her morning. If she knew I was outing her as a evil and ridiculous she would be mortified. But I am doing it anyway, because sometimes a story is worth the good opinion of a devilish dog.
What I didn’t know when I decided on this particular breed, was that they have a penchant for pushing balls under things like couches, dressers, television stands, etc. and then howling at them because they cannot reach under to retrieve them with their stumpy “arms.” They look around frantically as if they have no idea how the ball got under this extremely low piece of furniture, then begin to call for a stupid human to come and rescue them so that they can repeat the process.
By about 8 AM she had pushed her green, squeaky ball into a darkened abyss in my parents’ room. This was not her first time losing a toy beneath a piece of furniture but it is the first time my mom has called out, “Your dog is stuck under the treadmill.” She and my father called about three times before I realized it wasn’t a joke. Bleary-eyed, I fell out of bed and walked across the hallway. My parents were both on their knees peering under the lower end of the conveyer belt. I joined them. Her little brown eyes caught a bit of light coming in from the window, her stubby front legs were splayed and her mouth was open howling. When our eyes met, she froze. Of course, I did what any good mother would do when they caught their child underneath a fallen jar of cookies… I burst into laughter. Daphne was very quiet, as she stretched, stuck in a Chinese finger trap of her own design.
Reaching out for her trunk I tried to slide her straight out, but she didn’t budge. I tried, pulling her sideways, but she wasn’t moving either. She started to cry again. Despite my pinched nerve, I decided the only way to get her out was to lift the back of the treadmill. So with what I thought was going to require superhuman strength, I braced myself for a painful lift, but it only turned out to be about 30 lbs of force to raise it enough that she could crawl out. Rescued.
About fifteen minutes after that incident she decided to engage in another one of her old tricks– stealing dirty laundry. She selected a pair of underwear from the pile, looked at me with that impish sparkle in her eyes and took off down the stairs. Of course I chased her. The last time I didn’t I had to toss the garment because she had torn a large, un-mendable hole and it looked like a prop from a cartoon, jagged edges and all. So there was a chase but breakfast and clothing repair ensued. She is currently sleeping at my feet, worn out from her morning. If she knew I was outing her as a evil and ridiculous she would be mortified. But I am doing it anyway, because sometimes a story is worth the good opinion of a devilish dog.
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