I have a problem child. I would say he was a problem dog, but he requires so much more than my children did growing up that it’s only fair I get to claim him as a child. He needs more attention, more supervision, more tolerance, and more medical care. He needs more me. His name is Poe.
I have loved dachshunds forever. It is impossible to be in a bad mood if you’re staring at a dachshund. If you can get one to make direct eye contact straight on, you’ll get to see this little awkward grimace that looks identical to Dana Carvey when he used to do the church lady skit on SNL. Usually, however, you mostly get the bombastic side eye. The weens are famous for cutting you a look that is equal parts “ewww” and “I’m so guilty.” They waddle when they walk. They can’t see anything, as most of the world exists above their sight plane. Their run is akin to a fast moving slinky. They have long ears that sound like a helicopter aborting a take-off. And those stumpy little legs, those are the stuff dreams are made of. What could go wrong?
I met Poe in September of 2021. It had been a terribly sad six months since the loss of my beloved Lucy, another dachshund superstar. Lucy was nearly sixteen years old. She graced my life before any of my tragedies had befallen me. Lucy was pre-cancer. Lucy was pre-2008 recession. Lucy knew my daughter. Lucy knew my mom and dad. After she was gone, I mourned the cold spot side sleepers know as the slumber triangle, that area that would be your lap, except it recesses between your knees and chest once you assume that perfect fetal slumber position. That’s where Lucy slept. When she left, she took a chunk of me that I needed but couldn’t seem to locate, like an arm that fell asleep and just wouldn’t wake up again.
One day, I awoke to a barrage of Facebook messages. People were coming at me from all directions. “Look!” they said. “I thought of you,” was another common declaration. “OMG, Dina, you NEEEEED him,” was another popular comment. All had one thing in common, an attached photo of the saddest little wiener dog you ever did see. Underweight by several pounds, his ribs protruded dramatically. There was something going on in the ears area, too, though I couldn’t quite figure it out. I showed my husband. Though he was non-plussed, after the 252nd time I texted him the photo he sighed heavily and turned around. “If this will make you happy, go get him.” Kinder words were never spoken.
“Dear rescue person, I am writing you to ask for more information on the dachshund you posted on Facebook recently. I don’t know how else to say this, but I must have him. I’m sure people are contacting you right and left, but I would like to make this my official appeal. I lost my dachshund earlier this year. She lived a life all dogs deserve but few are allowed. When her teeth failed her, we softened her food. When the grandchildren became bothersome to her, we placed her in safe areas and gave her extra treats. She had the company of other dogs and never wanted for anything. We miss her so. I can’t fathom life without a ween. His name will be Poe because he makes my tell-tale heart beat faster. His life will be wonderful. Please let me know how we can make this happen.”
Poe has been here for 3 years that often feel like 27. He is prone to caterwauling to the point of peeling the paint. Upon arrival, he turned out to be a senior dog. At his routine dental cleaning, his first ever, it seems, he came home minus 11 teeth. He embodies a mean streak that is otherworldly. He does not like cats. He does not like grandchil-dren. He doesn’t like other dogs. He has one normal ear and one wadded up version we think was either mangled at birth or fell to an ill-treated hematoma. His back feet are somewhat arthritic and look like God placed them on the wrong legs. While he fits perfectly within the slumber triangle, he runs about 5000 degrees at night. He is a pottery kiln. He is prone to back injuries. He gains weight too easily and refuses to walk for exercise. He pees on things just for spite. He once cornered a cat inside of a sofa sectional and proceeded to kindly begin the reupholstery process for me to rescue said cat. He has terrible manners. He barks at everything, all the time. As if all these offenses aren’t convicting enough, Poe has coprophagia. He eats the poop of other dogs, like some sort of barbaric play to absorb their power.
None of this matters. We had a routine vet visit yesterday. I found out that his bad teeth are still bad. He is still too fat. But, as I sat there waiting on his heartworm test results, which turned out to be perfectly negative, I held this very bad dog and teared up. See, Poe is somewhere between 10 and 12. I am bracing for the day when he’s not here anymore. I will be unable to remember any of these awful things. That’s what death does for us. The rough edges are softened. Sharp tones are mellowed. The bad fades to the back. Only the good occupies our minds. There will come a day when the slumber triangle goes cold again. Until then Poe, it’s me and you, bud. I promise you that much.
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