Boingy Bongs

"Boing Boing Boing Boing..."

Michael walked in. "What are you doing?" he asked. "I've decided that Fips' hind-legs need to be strengthened," I said, "and so we're doing doggie leg-presses." With puppy on his back I bouncy-pushed on his hind legs as he springy pushed back. "Boing Boing Boing Boing"

Fips thinks this is fun for about 30 seconds, and it may condition his legs a somewhat but the real strengthening will come from Michael's long and longer walks and my hikes along mountain trails

.

Blink, Blink. Scratch, Scratch.

Fuzzy wuzzy; that’s what he was. I felt him up as Michael and Sue retreated to the kitchen to exchange paper and settle the deed. Eventually, I joined them and we sat at the table and talked over coffee, as the pup nosed around.

Sue’s life was dachshunds and her pride and joy was Herman her multiple-time, all time California Region champ. But she was a responsible breeder who carefully selected Herman’s dams and who sired him out not more than once a year, if that.

She also vetted the people to whom she parted out the litter. If I recall, Sue had had some reservations about the apartment and had wanted to insure that it was, in fact, sufficiently large. As I would later discover, it was at least as large as her ranchette house, and if we did not have private acreage we had all of Oakland’s Lake Merritt Park at our doorfront. At any rate, Sue’s vetting dovetailed nicely with Michael’s devious plan.

Being a breeder, Sue also had other priorities, the nose and tail of which was that she didn’t think all that much of the pup she had brought. It had something to do with the fact that he had been the runt of the litter, typically not the best breeding material. She also felt that his hind legs were on the weak side, so all things considered she knocked a hundred dollars off the price.

After a last go-over of feeding instructions and shot schedules, Sue left and Michael and I retreated to the living room to get acquainted with .....

“So what shall we call him?” I asked.

“Fips”

“Phipps ? What kind of name is that?

“F-i-p-s”

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing; it’s the name of a German cartoon monkey.”

“You want to name the dog after a monkey?”

“ It’s what we called our dogs at home.”

“So what is he, Fips the Fifth?”

“Third.”

Well, I hardly had much say in the matter, so Fips it was.

-o0o-

Night came and Mike and I retreated to our respective bedrooms. I unrolled my futon and got under the covers. Fips followed and snuggled by my side. I lay there in the dark enjoying how nice it felt to have this furry life-form snuggled between my chest and arm.

Blink, Blink ... Blink, Blink. I also felt that this could not be. With a certain regret, I got up and led Fips down the hallway to Michael’s room before returning to a now very empty bed.

Not for long. Fifteen minutes later, Fips wandered back down the hallway and crawled back to his place. “Oh hello, Fippsie,” I whispered, as I petted his head.

Blink, Blink. ... Blink, Blink. Really, this could not be. Again, I got up and carried Fips down to Michael’s room. “Maybe you should close your door,” I said, before returning to bed and turning off the light once and for all.

Scratch, Scratch...... Scratch, Scratch. I heard Michael’s door open and moments later, Fippsie was back curled up in my covers. Now I felt happy and terrible at the same time. This was so unfair to Mike; but it was just as unfair to Fips.

It had been evident during the day that his sisters’ biting and snapping had imbued Fips with an uncertain distrust of this life into which he had been born. What could be counted on, for sure, when you get kicked away from your mother’s milk?

Once again, Fips was being pushed away, this time by me.

Michael and I never talked about it but the last thing either of us wanted was for Fips to become resigned to life.

07/27/94

In the end Fips worked out his own solution. He would sleep with me until about four in the morning, at which time he crawl out from his jumble of covers and head over to Michael’s door.

Scratch, Scratch. .... Scratch, Scratch.
.

A Fuzzy Thing Happened one Saturday

Dog. Going on months, I had been thinking about getting a dog. The chief impediment was that I could not make up my mind what kind. Earlier in the year, when we took the cat to the vet I stood for a long time before a large chart of “Dogs of the World” carefully examining the pictures of each breed and liking most of them.

Several indecisive weeks later, my roommate, Michael, brought home a book of Dogs of the World with pictures, specifications and little blurbs on what the breed was good for and bad for. I liked most of those dogs too and since most of them were good for something I couldn’t really think of a reason not to get one of whatever it was.

Living in an apartment, we obviously could not get an Irish Wolfhound or an Hungarian Ropemop, but that still left a huge range of dogs between “shorter Lab” and “more than Chihuahua.” I tended toward medium height, 30 pound, short-hairs or terrier types with a “standard” open face, doggie smile.

“Would you ever consider a Dachshund?” Michael asked somewhat tentatively.

"A dachshund? A yippy yappy weener dog? Are you crazy?"

Even more tentatively Michael mumbled, “They’re great dogs....”

“No way! I don’t want some hyperventilating toy thing running around and snapping at everything.”

No... I wanted a dog I could go running with, toss sticks for, maybe take camping; not some hysterical misshapen dwarf with back problems.

“Really, they’re great dogs,” Michael said, “we had them at home.”

“You had a dachshund?” I broke out into derisive laughter.

I could see that Michael took offense. “You don’t know what you’re saying. We had a wirehaired dachshund and they’re great dogs.”

I had never heard of a wirehaired dachshund. Micheal showed me what they looked like in the Dog Book and explained that they were mellower than the short hairs and very impish and funny.

“Well maybe so,” I said, “but I don’t want a dachshund.” .

-o0o-

Several weeks past and the dog issue remained in abeyance when Michael came to the door of my office to announce that he was going to Modesto.

“Modesto? What for?”

“There’s a breeder down there, who’s just had a litter of wirehair dachshunds.”  [1]

I got real emphatic. I told Michael that I did not want no dachshund. This was a joint decision and we’d have to agree on the dog.

“I’m just going to go look.”

“Well, I don’t know what for. I’m serious, Mike, do not bring back any dachshund. Promise me.”

He promised he wouldn’t.

- o0o-

Late at night, Michael came back. Alone. In the morning, he showed me a Polaroid picture of what looked to me like a bunch of fuzzy brown piglets and explained that the litter had produced only one male, the runt, where the arrow pointed.

“Lots of detail,” I said, sarcastically and handed him back the photo.

“Well I took some videos too,” he said.

" Maybe later."

“Oh...c’mon... It’ll just be a few minutes, give it a look.”

Michael was obviously trying to sell me on this dog. I wasn’t interested but figured I could at least play along.

The cam’s screen showed a not very clear picture of a largish hamster-like thing walking unsteadily and not very happily on some back porch pathway.

“His sisters are always biting him and pushing him away from their mothers teat,” Michael explained.

“That’s too bad,” I said.

“He’s very sweet.”

“Maybe so. I’m sorry he’s being picked on, Mike, but I really don’t want a dachshund, okay? I’m serious.”

Michael let it rest.

-o0o-

Ding Dong.....

I looked up from the couch were I was having a late Saturday morning coffee. “Who the hell could that be?” I wondered.

“It’s Sue, the breeder, from Modesto,” Michael said as he rushed to push the buzzer.

“The what?!! Michael!!!”

He was out the door, headed for the elevators.

“Michaeellll!!!”

Moments later, Michael reappeared at the door with Sue, a broad, cheerful woman in her fifties holding a black basket in her arms. As I walked toward the hallway, Sue bent down and let this fuzzy thing out of the basket. It all happened so fast.

It stood there in the hallway, a little uncertain, but looking straight at me, as I looked straight down at him. We moved toward one another and next I knew I was on the floor and he was in my arms.

[2]
.