Wednesday, October 12, 2005
There are days when one becomes frustrated with one's denominations choices of leadership. Mediocrity reigns. Once again (with a few exceptions). It won't be long before I am forced to jump ship. Alas, I'm such a bad Brethren (for all you non-Brethren who scratch you're heads when I talk "Brethren speak" you can find out more at www.brethren.org...but I'm not proselytizing, unless you're consider membership in my sweet little enclave of like-minded nerdies like me and then I'll tell you all about how much Beacon Heights CoB rocks).
I am, however, not frustrated with my topic of conversation today (at least not within the last hour, as she last pooped on the floor late this afternoon and I was not home to clean it up)...the amazing Miss Maisie May Wienerschnitzel Buttwhirler Pettite Miller. My wee dachshund. Love of my life. Baby substitute extraordinaire. Seven pounds of pure German dog love. Perhaps one day I'll figure out the details and actually be able to post pictures, but for now you just have to oooh and aaaahh in your minds at the adorableness that is my baby girl.
I'm all verklemt (spelling please?) tonight because it 'twas on this night only three short years ago that Maisie came into our home after being picked up at Betty the dachshund breeder's house.
You see, I grew up with shetland sheepdogs. Dogs which essentially live to please their human companions. Dogs which look at you all day to ask, "You okay? Everything all right? Anything I can do? Sheep to be herded? Ice cubes to be licked up? Anything? You sure?" I assumed that most dogs would be this polite, this accomodating, but what I've learned is that dachshunds? No, not so much. Not so much with the pleasing, and the accomodating. Stubborn, though? Yes. Very stubborn.
I wanted a dog so desperately, and my sweet husband, R., who DID not want a dog was not worn down by my begging, until there was that day when I said, "Oh, sweetums, lamby-kins, you know, we could get a dachshund." And R.'s eyes glazed over as he fondly recalled his many days romping on the fish hatchery in West Texas with Fritz the wonder-dachshund. "Yes, yes..." he responded in a somnambulant state. And that's how Maisie came to be.
She's not so well-behaved. She's apt to piddle on the floor in glad adoration when you enter a room. She only informs her family about half the time when she needs to go outside for her nighly ablutions. She'll leave teeny tiny turdlets on your freshly mopped floor. She can, through a series of stair-step jumps make her way to the kitchen table and when caught merely looks at you as if to say, "Look at me! I'm so tall up here!" with absolutely no shame. She has been known to knock my purse off it's hook on the wall and find the benadryl hidden inside and devour it (causing her poor Mommy to call the emergency vet frantically, to which relaxed vet said, "Well, she'll have a good nap then.") She only listens to R. for discipline, and if I drop my voice really, really low she'll sometimes obey.
She's truly a pain in the rectum. She is.
And yet, there is nothing more adorable than watching her shower the girls with kisses when they return home (as if to say, "Oh my God! I never thought I'd see you again! And look, here you are! I love you, I love you, I love you!"), or to have her burrow into your armpit (a place that few dare to go, what a sign of unconditional love!) .
She is Maisielicious and tonight I celebrate the dachshund, poop and all. Long live the canine girl!