I'm a big-time Dachshund fan. I've loved the breed since I was knee-high to one of them; that's been a while. I'm 64 now, and in my life, I have been privileged to be the best friend to at least four Dachshunds, and there were two or three more who crept into my world for only a very brief stay, but I loved them fully and completely. My first one? Well, it's true, my first one was my first pet ever; a "Rover named Brown Dog" is what I remember the most about how we got him.
My sister Andie was about three years older than me, which put her at about four years of age when she heard about brown dogs. She wanted one. She wanted to name it Rover. We don't know why. The story goes (and there is absolutely no way to verify this) that she begged my parents for a dog she could name Rover, and it had to be brown. She got mixed up at some point and told them she wanted a Rover named Brown Dog. My parents, being absolute suckers for animals themselves, found a way to make it happen. I'm thinking a "dog pound" was involved.
Well, one thing led to the next, and the Stringfellows had a dog. We had a little brown dog, and my sister named him Rover. Try as she might, and I'm sure she did, the dog did not follow her. He did not sleep with her. He didn't walk with her. She didn't pay him that much attention (as far as I remember), but I did. Rover became my dog. Even though he shared my other sister's middle name (Rover Kay), he was my dog. No one in the family would or could say otherwise - he was and will always be my dog.
Rover was mostly Dachshund. Mom liked to say he was part terrier, but as I grew up and learned more about dog breeds, it became clear he was most likely a mix with another hound or a working sport dog like a Beagle. He was about 20-22 pounds, tri-colored, mostly brown and tan, but had a swath of white on his chest. He was never "fixed" because it wasn't done in those days. Rover probably made a few babies as he ran around quite a bit - both on his own and with me. He was never on a leash, but always by my side. He'd even walk me to school, wait outside for a while, go home, and come back to get me when it was time to go home.
Though there would never be another Rover in my life, I'm more than positive that God chose to send a few more Doxies to help my mental and emotional state; He knew I'd need it. There were two others who stayed with me a little while, who kept me happy, sane, and centered. Matrix was my love. I found him in 1999 just after the first of the year, and he loved me until his death in 2012 from cancer. He was, as I always tell anyone who will listen, a perfect dog. He was both a Dachshund and a Beagle. His mother was not supposed to mingle with those outside her own breed -- but what can you do when a very handsome 15-inch Beagle strolls into your pristine kennel for a sleepover?
The story goes that Matrix was one of two puppies who came out with both black and white nails - they were outcasts. They were literally taken to the vet and left when they were very young; they were not registered, nor would they be. I was the lucky one - I only wish I could have found his sibling, too. Matrix was black, tan, and white - and so so so very regal. He was my heart, and I still mourn for him at times. Matrix was the guard dog, my sleeping companion, my headrest, and often a footstool. He was there; always there, and when I had to leave him to tour the world with Faith, he understood his role. I love that dog.
Then, literally days after Matrix visited with Jesus, I got a phone call from an animal caregiver in the state next to mine. She had a full-blooded Mini Dox who had been rescued from a breeder farm. He was a boy, being raised to make babies. He hadn't made them yet; he was too young, but he was poised to do it - and had very little social manners whatsoever. He was brindle colored, long, gorgeous, and quite the clown. I named him George before I met him - when I did meet him, the first thing he ever did was bite me.
George forgave me for whatever it was he was upset about, and we spent the next eight years together before he injured himself jumping from the couch. It broke me. It utterly gutted me, and there was nothing I could do for him but to let him go and check up on Matrix and Rover. Rover, by the way, was born around the first of December in 1962, and died January 18, 1978 - he was a good boy. When George left, I cried just as hard as I had ever cried over a dog in my life. Why I didn't get another Dachshund, I won't know. I just didn't. When George was still young, I brought home a friend for him. She was a girl! She was a pug mix - probably with a Chihuahua. She was another star in our galaxy of love. The two were inseparable.
Then, this year, when George's girlfriend Ginger grew older and quite feeble, I was called again by a friend whose mother dog had given birth at the start of March. Ginger was the dog I found for George - it was my plan that they should grow old together, but he left too soon. I loved her until she could no longer remember me - and it was time to let her go as well. Just before she did, I told my friend I'd take one of her pups. I knew he was a full-blooded Dachshund, and because he was black and tan, I couldn't say no.
Neo came to live with us about two weeks before Ginger was taken to the vet. He was tiny. He was just about six weeks old. His mother, a standard Dachshund, is also black and tan. His father, a miniature, is dappled black and silver, I think. If you saw Neo, you'd know he took after mom in more ways than one. He's a mammoth! At just over four months old, he weighs in at 20 pounds. If you do the puppy-weight challenge —doubling his weight at 4 months to see what he'll weigh as an adult—he'll be 40 pounds!
At 20 pounds, he stands more than a foot tall at the shoulders, and his head is big, thick, dense, and dark. His nose is longer, thicker, and stronger. His crown is wide-brimmed, making him look much more serious than he really is. Like George, the little guy is a clown for sure, but he's already so possessive of literally everything, and that includes the kitten. He's rarely without his kitten, and I'm not sure Nevelle really appreciates being held captive as often as he is.
Neo is going to be a force. His paws are twice the size of those of an ordinary Dachshund or a miniature. He's a power digger, which, of course, goes with the job description of being a Badger Dog, but he's also a bed hog, blanket thief, food grabber, treat hoarder, and snuggle buddy. He's genuinely perfect -- and I'm in my own little heaven loving on him as much as I possibly can. I don't think I could ever go a day without one now - I know I can't. I don't want Neo to leave, but I could actually see myself finding one or two more of these dense sausages and just tucking them up under my armpits if I needed to.
A day without a Dachshund is simply something I never want to ever experience. I pray I never have to. When I get to heaven -- it will be...well, heaven.
Photo Credit: Neo at 4 months.
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