A Wiener (Dog) For Dinner

Princess and my brother, Davie

               I grew up in the time of family supper each night. My mom, leaving home at 6:00 a.m., arrived back home after 5:30 p.m. and cooked a full supper for her family then cleaned the kitchen. “What,” you might ask, “were her family doing in the afternoon and evening?”

               Good question. The answer is, “Never enough.”

               Princess brought begging to high art. She came in after we sat down around the smaller kitchen table. While we said grace, she decided on her mark. Then, she looked up, raised the upper part of that l-o-n-g deep chestnut body, carefully balancing with her tail, tottering at times because, truly, dachshunds are called wiener dogs for a reason. Finally, her balance reached, she carefully s-l-i-d down until her bottom hit the floor, her short front legs folded in front of her, those beautiful brown eyes looking up at the target, eyebrows brought close together in a begging frown, a quiet, staring presence.

               Just try to eat with those eyes boring into your hand as it brings a bite to your mouth, back to your plate, to your mouth, to your plate, back, up, down, her head barely moving, that long nose pointing the way.

               After a few minutes of this, en masse the four humans came to agreement. “Princess! Go to the living room! Go on!” At which point, her short legs lowered that long body. “Go on!” Her sad eyes looked up, nose pointing to the floor. “GO!” And with sadness defining every vertebrae in that extended back, she slowly, one short leg at a time, walked to the living room.

               At which time we sighed and enjoyed eating without a little dog staring hopefully at us, measuring our every bite.

               Invariably, it seemed, after a few minutes, wild barking broke out in the living room! “Ark! Ark! Ark! ArkArkArkArkArkArk! ARKARKARK!!!!” Or, translated, “Somebody’s at the door!! Come quick! Come quick! COME QUICK!” Somebody’s at the door!”

               And somebody—usually my older brother or I—got up to go rescue whoever dared arrive at our door and disturb the dog. We hadn’t heard a knock, but, well, who needed a doorbell or door knocker? We had Princess.

               Once at the door, we quietly asked her to stop the shrieking barking. “PRINCESS! SHUT UP!” which did no good at all, then opened the door.

               And saw no one. Hmmm. No one there. Well, she had heard something and alerted us just in case. “Good girl! Good girl, Princess!”

               Then, as we walked back to the kitchen, the little, stubby-legged dog came trotting along behind.

               “No one there?” asked my mom or dad?

               “Nope.”

               “Well, Princess must’ve heard something. She sure let’em know, didn’t she!”

               “Yep.”

               Meanwhile, in a new spot, different than earlier, a little, long-backed dog, lifted her head and front legs, and balanced her stretched-out body on her tail, got balanced j-u-s-t right, then s-l-i-d down onto her bottom.

               It took us longer to figure out her scheme to return to the kitchen than it had her to come up with it. My whole life I’ve had dogs smarter than I am.

               And, I don’t care.