Raining Cats and Dogs… and Bacon?

We got up this morning and stumbled bleary-eyed to the door to find out it was raining cats and dogs. Mostly cats. And right away Ann gave us the pep talk.

“You’re strong! You can handle a little rain. You’re dogs!”

I like that she calls us dogs like it’s term of respect. Like we’re superheroes. She really ought to say it with a capital D. “You’re Dogs!”

Well, after we turned away, and refused to venture into the pouring rain, she insulted us.

“Wimps!”

Today she even singled me out.

“Indy, you’re a guy. Get out there!”

Of course I feel ashamed that a torrent of freezing rain stops me in my tracks, but let’s look at this a little closer.

Who stays inside, pushing us out with her foot?

Who has a comfy, dry room to do her business in?

Who sticks us back in our cages and retires to her computer with a cup of steaming coffee?

We know who.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not resentful. I don’t complain about the bathroom conditions or the cold, stale kibble we get while she gets a piping hot meal of fresh chicken or beef. Or that she never shares her bacon with us. I’m glad I don’t have to chase down a squirrel or a gazelle for my breakfast every morning.

But neither does she.

Every week she comes home with bags of food. Bags of it! And each time I’m hopeful that this week will be different. This time I’ll get to taste bacon.

It never happens.

If only it could rain bacon.

I’m not giving up hope, though. Even if she never shares with us, one of these days I know that bacon will happen.

She’ll get a phone call or someone will come to the door, and her bacon will lie unguarded on her plate.

I’ll be ready. Just a short leap to the chair, and all my dreams will come true.

Will I share with Sammy and Lovie?

Sorry, it’s every dog for himself around here. I’d say it’s a dog eat dog world, but that’s a little melodramatic.

I don’t want bacon that much.

Are You Smarter than a Dachshund?

When Ann walked in with another bag of books, we three dogs gave each other a knowing look.

Now, don’t get me wrong, Ann always is reading at least one book. She tucks up in bed every night with a cup of herbal tea and an Agatha Christie until she nods off and drops the book on the floor.

But when she has so many that she needs a bag to carry them, that can mean only one thing: self-help books.

They’re usually about the same subjects: minimalism (like that’s going to happen), building better habits, building a better brain (What’s wrong with the one she’s got?), building a better body (okay, that one makes sense), writing (she gets a lot of those – if she spent her time writing instead of reading about writing, she’d finish her novel).

And all this on tope of the German she’s learning online, the exercising, and don’t get me started on the violin she’s taken up. We all go hide under the couch when she pulls that thing out.

Now you can call me a cynical dachshund and maybe I am, but isn’t the answer right in front of her?

Who’s happier than a dog?

And what makes us this way? We don’t own anything, so we don’t have to organize it. Our exercise program is a brisk walk in the fresh morning air. And no dog is smarter than a dachshund. All we need is a little kibble and curling up next to our favorite person. Any dog can tell you there’s nothing better than that.

And I didn’t have to read six self-help books to figure it out.

False Alarms and Feeling Foolish

Dachshunds take the job of being a dog very seriously. We basically have two: protect the people/house and take care of leftovers. Of course, the people/house part is more important, but we were born to clean up leftovers, too.

We often have false alarms. Several a day, in fact. But it’s because we’re so dedicated.
Lesser dogs might give up on chasing outside to follow every airplane or crow; basically anything that enters the yard, but dachshunds are nothing if not committed.

Sometimes Indy has a bad dream, and we all go chasing outside after his imaginary enemies. Imaginary enemies need chasing, too. The important thing is that we don’t let the risk of looking foolish because it’s a false alarm stop us from doing what we were meant to do.

Everyone feels foolish sometimes, even dachshunds.

Dachshunds Watching the Olympics

In case you think dogs just snooze through the Olympics, we can tell you dachshunds do not. Well, not totally.

When a particularly lively skating tune woke Sammy last night, she jumped off the couch, gave herself a back rub on the carpet, got a drink of water, and gave herself another good back rub before snuggling up again next to Lovie.

That was a bit much. Evenings are our rest time. We can get some good napping then because we don’t have to monitor the yard for evil, black crows and sassy squirrels.

Meanwhile, Ann launched into one of her long speeches. This time about how great it is for countries to come together in the name of fair competition. She thought it promoted world peace or something.

We dachshunds have our own ideas about such things.

“World peace?” Lovie said. “How could trying to kill yourself help world peace?”

Indy scowled. He’s kind of a grumpy dog anyway.

“They aren’t trying to kill themselves,” he said as he scuffed up his blanket.

“Sure they are,” Lovie said. “Otherwise, why would they hop around on skinny knives attached to their paws or jump off mountains?”

“They do that for exercise. Didn’t you notice they do it to music? When humans do crazy things to music, it’s for exercise, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Lovie nodded. “It still seems silly. Chasing off rabbits and sniffing around for intruders is important work and gets me all the exercise I need.”

Lovie is a bit overweight, but she tries to pretend it’s her fluffy fur. We know better.

“Tomorrow night is the luge,” Indy said.

“How do they know ahead of time they’re going to lose?” Lovie said.

“I said luge, not lose!” Indy said. “It’s sledding.”

“Dog-sledding? With dogs pulling the sleds? I like that.” Sammy said.

“No, the people ride on them down a big curvy slide,” Indy said.

“That sounds like fun, too. When are they going to let us do that?” Lovie said.

“Never. You’re a dog. You’ve got serious work to do.” Sammy said.

“We have fun, too. It’s fun being ‘man’s best friend.’ Or rather ‘Ann’s best friend,’ and who’s more loyal and loving than a dog? If that isn’t promoting world peace, I don’t know what is.”

“Yeah, you’re a true Olympian.” Indy said.

He was kidding her about her weight, but she thought he meant it.

“We all are,” she said.

Stick your head out the window and enjoy the breeze

People are stressed. Dogs, on the other hand, enjoy life. No, we don’t trot around sporting a grin, but we’re smiling on the inside. Sometimes, we’re laughing.

One reason is we don’t judge people. When Ann dances around like a crazy woman, we act as if nothing out of the ordinary is going on. Sure, we share glances that she doesn’t see, but the important thing is that she feels free to do whatever she wants in front of us. We accept her weirdness.

With food, we’re a little more discriminating, but not much. The rule is, if a bowl or plate hits the floor, we lick first and ask questions later. There are very few foods we’ll turn down. Ketchup. What’s up with that stuff? Why are you squirting that on perfectly good hotdogs and hamburgers?

All dogs know that there’s no problem that a good nap won’t solve. Afternoon naps are best, but we usually manage to fit in several in the morning and evenings, too.

And car rides. People don’t understand what a ball it is. Why ruin such a fun time with road rage? We try to cheer Ann up when someone cuts her off and she starts muttering. We land on her lap and lick her face, but for some reason, she pushes us away. We don’t let it bother us. We just stick our heads out the window and enjoy the breeze.

Why Dachshunds Rule!

All dogs are not created equal. Naturally dachshunds are the most intelligent breed. We’re not saying that just because we’re dachshunds, either. What some call stubbornness, we call confidence. We ooze confidence.

Take, for instance, how we’ve taken over this blog. Ann didn’t even notice. Yeah, yeah, sure, there was another granddaughter born last week, so she’s been gone a lot, but she’d already basically abandoned it.

Dogs who do whatever they’re told lack imagination. And they’re so needy, they’re pathetic. I’m not saying we don’t love Ann, but that doesn’t mean we have to do everything she says.

Say we’re outside and don’t want to come in. When Ann calls us, we cock our heads and look at her like we don’t understand. Then we resume what we were doing, usually sniffing around for intruders. That’s our job. She ought to understand how important that is. Humans are nose blind, so they need us to do this for them.

If we do it right, we can milk a treat out of stalling. Rather than come outside and get us, Ann will eventually yell “treat!” and we’ll come running. She, of course, feels obliged to give us one. She’s basically an honest person who doesn’t lie to her dogs.

Lovie gives us a wink, and we share a laugh, usually covering it up with a burp.

We’re taking over… signed the Undercover Dachshunds

We’re taking over this blog. We’re tired of Ann complaining that she doesn’t have time to keep up with everything in her life, including this blog post. Look how long it’s been since she’s written anything! How hard could it be to write a blog?

We’re Sammy, Indy, and Lovie. We’re dachshunds and Ann is our “owner.” Of course, we really own her. We do all of the important work around here, chasing off strangers, including biting them if necessary (and Lovie has found it so), barking off crows and helicopters, and licking up floors/eating leftovers.

Today, we were eagerly waiting to take care of a chicken carcass. Ann was pulling off the meat. She’s pretty clumsy, so we can usually count on her to drop something. Today, not one bite fell on the floor. So disappointing. So we did something we like to call Trip & Snack.

It’s pretty self-explanatory. We take turns being the one who trips her. The other two rush in and lick up the result. We didn’t get much today from the T & S, but she’s a pretty good cook, so even a few bites are worth taking a chance on being told we’re bad dogs.

There’s something you should know about dachshunds. We’re not like most dogs who are at the beck and call of their owners. We do what we want. Of course, we’re minis and we have only teeth and paws to work with, but we do what we can.

We also carry out clandestine maneuvers. We might share a few of these on here in the future, but only because Ann is using a pen name. She’s incognito and so of course are we. We’re Undercover Dachshunds.

Here’s a photo of us. You can tell by the look in our eyes how seriously we take our job.

Hide the scissors and the cooking spray…

… and the parchment paper. From everyone in your life. Unless your spouse and children have watched every season of The Great British Bake Off, The Barefoot Contessa, or —– (insert your favorite cooking show).

Or you could just stay home and guard these things from any kitchen invaders.

Scissors? That’s obvious. The first time your darling gives another child a haircut, you’ll break out in a cold sweat. I got so used to hiding them when our children were small, that I’ve never been able to break myself of the habit. Unfortunately, I’m basically hiding them from myself now.

Maybe you can guess why I’ve mentioned parchment paper. The cost is exorbitant; I’m not sure why. It’s … paper. But those at home will pull it off the roll in great pieces using it for anything from covering food in the microwave (if anyone in your family actually does this) to drawing a picture for Mommy.

Then you’ll be assessing if you could still use it. How hard it is to get crayon off a baking sheet? Or you’re choking back tears or unusable words to stammer out a thank you while explaining this is Mommy’s special paper only to be used when making the most complicated bake… oh, never mind. Great picture, honey, let’s hang it on the refrigerator where everyone can see it.

The cooking spray is more complicated. Try explaining how olive oil bonds with certain non-stick cooking surfaces (and they’re all different) so you’re left with a gummy residue. That. Never. Comes. Off. Unless you take a Brillo pad to it. Which kind of defeats the whole non-stick thing.

And you might as well get used to this. After your children are grown, you’ll still be hiding them from your spouse. Your husband might, say, take your favorite giant metal bowl and use it to drain the oil into. Of course, that’s purely hypothetical. It’s really a losing battle trying to anticipate what they’ll come up with.

No, it’s better to just stay home. Now if I could just find a pair of scissors…

Why, Neato?

I’ve said before that I love my robot vacuum. In case you’ve never used one of these it’s like having a maid come in to do your floors… every day. What’s not to love? No the vac doesn’t wash them, but if all the crumbs are gone, how long does that take? Fifteen minutes?

And until you’ve lived with my bristley-coated black dachshund, Indy, you can’t imagine how his hair gets into everything from my shoes to the chocolate chip cookies. Fortunately, everyone thinks they’re just slivers of chips.

So Neato is my favorite. I’ve tried other brands. Too complicated. The Neato doesn’t have a lot of unnecessary bells and whistles that I don’t use anyway to go on the fritz.

Until last week. Suddenly, Rocky (that’s his name) kept flashing that his brushes were stuck. Um, okay. Really? I pulled out a few pieces of thread. The brushes look like they turn to me, but he still refused to work.

Now I should interrupt here to say that I do not have the “magic touch” to fix things. I do have a certain knack of breaking almost everything, but if I try to play handyman, things get worse.

Case in point: my husband was out of town a few months ago when my car started to overheat. I pulled over to call him about it. While I was standing there looking at the engine, the hood came down, hit me on the head, and knocked my phone out of my hand. Result: broken screen.

Yes, that could happen to anyone. But twice? Yep, I picked it up and repeated the process with the hood hitting me on the head again.

I think my problem is I am too determined. Take the slight kitchen sink clog. You might plunge it or try Draino.

I poured baking soda and vinegar down it to create a volcano and then plunged and plunged. And plunged. I got the drain so thoroughly clogged that no snake could fix it. My husband eventually had to take apart the pipes to unclog it.

So when Rocky told me about his brushes I hesitated to touch him other than to pull out a few stray strings. My husband is fearless. He performed an operation, and Rocky rallied one more time. Then Rocky insisted his brushes were stuck again. So what is it really? Chronic fatigue? We both know those brushes are not stuck.

And what about me? Sure, I have another vacuum I can use on the small amount of carpeting we have, but Rocky went everywhere, under everything. I mean, I have a broom somewhere, but it’s been years since I pulled it out. I guess I remember how to use it. It’s like riding a bike, right? But… every day? No way I’m dragging that thing across all these floors every day.

So, why, Rocky? Why? Didn’t I praise you enough? Did I take you for granted? In retrospect, I should have seen the writing on the wall. Lately, he’d been going home to his charger but stopping a few inches away, saying Help! He couldn’t navigate. Three inches away and you need me to draw you a map?

So, no food, it looks like he’s on a hunger strike. Well, Rocky, the Internet is filled with robot vacuums, and I haven’t tried the Roomba, yet.

 

Why, Starbucks?

I gave you the best years of my life.

We were a pair, you and I. You with your strong taste, me with my caffeine addiction.

But you turned on me. Why, Starbucks?

Coffee comes with cream. There I said it. I’ll say it again. Coffee comes with cream. If your coffee is strong, it needs more cream than say Panera. Most of America could agree with us on that one.

But you’ve started rationing it. Last I heard there wasn’t a cream shortage, but for some reason you’ve got some crazy notion in your head that we can all do without cream.

No container of cream sitting out for me to use. So when I requested what I guess is now contraband, Barista Number One acted like a maitre d’ in a fine restaurant, complete with the air. I was the poor schmuck who’d wandered in off the street expecting to be served.

First he ignored me. Then he acquiesced, grudgingly, bringing me the tiniest cup I’d ever seen. There might have been a tablespoon or two in there. It was hard to tell with the lid on. That sturdy little cup cost far more than the cream I would have used if they’d just let me get my own.

Obviously, that wasn’t enough cream to combat the industrial strength of the drink, but I was dealing with that. Actually I was trying to get his attention because my husband’s drink was wrong. But he and Barista Number Two must have decided I was trying to worm more cream out them, so we were back to being ignored.

I’ll let you in on a secret, Starbucks… other places serve the stuff.

I think that someday that old saying “The customer is always right” will resurface and Starbucks will let me have my cream again. In the meantime, I’ll say, “see you later.”