Road Apples by Tim Sanders
June 10, 2013

Wiener Dog Rituals

Share |

I have mentioned our dachshund Maggie in other columns dealing with dachshundology. My contention has always been that she is an excellent dog, and exhibits the qualities that many humans lack. She is extremely loyal, and would never consider leaving us to live with a wealthier family. Money means nothing to her. There's not a doctor, lawyer or politician in the state who could buy her friendship. Not even with a shopping cart full of doggie treats and a burlap bag full of nice, crisp bacon.

She is also very gifted when it comes to automobile engines. When a strange vehicle pulls into the driveway, Maggie gives her warning bark to tell us that there may be evil-doers–you know, relatives, Jehovah's Witnesses or UPS men–casing the joint. But when it is one of our vehicles, she recognizes it and offers her rendition of Ode to Joy, which is a combination of a high-pitched bark and a plaintive squeal. It makes no difference if we've been gone for ten minutes or all day, she always greets us as though we'd just returned from a ten-year space odyssey. She barks and squeals and runs around in circles with her tail wagging furiously. Maggie has been with us in the same house for nearly eleven years, watching us come and go, and yet her reaction is always: “Dang, they actually came back. I was sure that this time that big yellow tomcat from down the street would get them! They were carrying groceries, after all!” None of our friends or relatives have ever reacted that way to our arrival. Okay, so I had an aunt, once, who squealed and barked, but she never wagged her tail or ran around in circles. Either way, having a dog or an aunt that is always that overjoyed to see you does wonders for your ego. Although, come to think of it, my aunt never squealed or barked until we were about to leave.

Maggie may not be exceptionally bright, but she certainly is consistent when it comes to her rituals. During the day she spends a lot of time at the sliding glass door. Often she simply sits and gazes at the backyard and the field behind it. Sometimes she is on the lookout for intruders into her territory, and sometimes you can tell by the thoughtful expression on her face that she's tapping into her evolutionary past, when vast herds of great woolly, twenty-foot long, eighteen-inch high dachshunds roamed the planet, and all the other prehistoric beasts ran away, or at the very least took care to protect their ankles when the fearsome dachshund howl was heard.

And speaking of rituals, at 7 p.m., like clockwork, Maggie comes into the den and gives me her “I'm ready to eat now!” whine. If that doesn't get my attention, she'll walk over to the desk and steps on my foot. And if I'm still distracted, she'll jump up and thump my leg with her powerful dachshund front paws. Regardless of our schedule, Maggie considers 10 p.m. her bedtime, and demands, using similar canine signals, that somebody, usually Mommy, fix her bed and put her in it. She may be almost eleven years old, which translates to 354 in human terms, but she still needs her beauty sleep.

Sometimes Maggie will walk into the den, look to see if I am seated at the desk, and if so, she will get under the desk and another dachshund ritual will have begun. She'll remain there until Christmas, or until Daddy leaves. Within a few minutes after her arrival under the desk a storm will commence, right on schedule, and we'll hear the thunder. She, of course, descending from a long line of prehistoric woolly dachshunds, has exceptional hearing, and heard the thunder while it was several miles away. She instinctively knew that God was out to get her. Her traditional position during a thunderstorm is under the desk. Since that is where all the computer wires, printer wires, lamp wires, speaker wires, and various other electrical wires are connected to that evil, pulsating, lightning-attracting power strip, you'd think that's the last place she'd want to be. But despite the fact that I've explained the danger several times, Maggie prefers to be there while God is shooting off his electrical ammunition, hoping to locate one little dachshund hidden somewhere in Cherokee County. She either believes that next to that power strip is the last place God would look, or that Daddy is somehow implicated in causing the thunderstorm, and would never call on God to send a lightning bolt in his own direction.

So, whatever her limited thinking ability might be, Maggie still runs the show at our place. She has a bad back, so she is always carried outside to do her “business.” Going up and down those deck stairs can damage her back, so she is carried, much like Cleopatra on her litter, in and out, up and down. She now expects this queenly treatment, and waits for us, her litter bearers, to grab the pooper scooper and bear her litter. Litterally. Other Maggie rituals include a dachshund paw on the cupboard door, indicating one of a variety of doggie treats, depending on which door is designated. And of course there's the pill ritual. She takes two pills in the morning and two at night. She doesn't particularly care to take them, and in fact they have to be poked down her throat by a human finger, but she knows when they are due, and her other rituals must wait until the pill ritual is completed. Her reasoning here, of course, is that after she successfully takes both pills without urping either one up, she gets a doggie treat. In addition, naturally, to the one she already got by placing her paw on the cupboard door after coming in from conducting her “business” transaction outside. Maggie's rituals usually work to her advantage.

And furthermore–NO, I'VE GOT TO GO NOW! I promised Maggie I'd let her watch our old “Thin Man” CD at 8:30 after she took her pills. She doesn't care much for William Powell or Myrna Loy, but she likes the star of the movie, the fox terrier Asta.