The revenge of the Bowling Ball Crew
by Ken Carpenter
Man first domesticated dogs about 14,000 years ago. They have been his best friend ever since then, though that has not stopped both sides from snacking on each other from time to time. Personally, I would eat my neighbor before I would eat one of my dogs, but that is just me.
I am a wiener dog man, as anyone who has the audacity to drive by my house can attest. My four furry sausages think they own everything they can see, whether they can get to it or not, and vocal restraint is not their strong suit. I call them The Bowling Ball Crew, because it is entirely possible that the smartest of the bunch could lose a battle of wits with a bowling ball.
The first written reference to the dachshund, which means, “badger dog” in German, was in the early 1700’s. The breed was once described as being “a half a dog high and a dog and a half long”, and their resemblance to one of man’s favorite foods is their main claim to fame.
Their most endearing, and at times exasperating, quality is that they think they are hairy little humans. In their tiny pea brains there is absolutely no reason in the world that they should not enjoy the same rights as their owners, be it dining or sleeping accommodations.
In many cases they are right, for they quite often rule whatever roost they happen to call home.
Sigh, mine are no different. When I got married last year my wife inherited a bed full of dogs in the bargain, and banishing them was not an option. The only reason they don’t charge us rent is that we control the food source.
Wienies are the coolest of all animals, and if you don’t think so just ask one. You will get a whimsical look in return, directly in the eye for they love eye contact, and then they are apt to spin circles and woof at something in the distance as if they are changing the subject. They know they are cool, fool, they don’t have to prove nothin’.
I spent a whole weekend beefing up my back yard so that Lacy, the matriarch and the best escape artist since Houdini, could no longer escape. When I went to work after closing them in Monday morning, I was smugly confident that the concentration camp was finally escape proof. When my wife and I got home that night, we quietly drove around the back way so we could spy on the hounds in their new jail without being seen.
Both of us almost soiled our britches when we coasted into the driveway and all four dogs came charging off the porch. “Yikes,” I said, “Lacy not only escaped she broke out the other three too!”
I immediately took them out to the backyard, closed the backdoor, and by the time I made it back to the front door the proud and grinning foursome were looking in the sliding glass door at me. Dejected, I let them in and sat on the floor so they could mob me.
It turns out that the digginest dogs dug under the skirting, worked their way under the house, and dug under another part. They now had a freeway, which took me another half day of hauling and stacking rocks to cure.
That worked to keep Neva, Murph and Abby in, but on the third day Lacy found a way out and went to the local bar for beer and jerky. No lie, she is partial to bars and would gladly live in one if we let her. Funny thing is, I have never taken her to a tavern, she discovered them on her own excursions and decided they were just the ticket.
So now when we go to work, Lacy is locked up in the house and the other three get the low-tech kennel. I give up for now…she has finally proven once and for all that I am more of a bowling ball than she is. I do not know how she gets out, but I do know that she could probably escape from Alcatraz if she had the opportunity.
At least she would if she knew there was a bar down the street.
(All four of these loveable weenies are in doggy heaven now, the last one having died last year. We now have one wiener dog, Sadie, who came along in time to make five for a few years. She is now the princess of our other three un-weenie dogs; Molly, Jezebel and Andy.)