My man puts on his sneakers, and suddenly I’m on all fours. He stares down at me staring up at him. It’s a staring contest. I wag my tail, further testament to my willingness to walk. Sometimes it works. Am I walk-worthy? Wag. Wag. Wag.
Sometimes he doesn’t really see me, my man, for what I am — his faithful friend. He frowns at me, like that time I chewed his $100 shoes, and thinks, “Did I really spend $325 for this dog? Was I crazy? This dog has no talent, no discipline, doesn’t understand a word.”
I can read my man’s mind like that. All dogs can. We read minds with our noses, through our sniffs. It’s our secret power, like that time he left a library book on the floor: The Tin Roof Blowdown, by James Lee Burke. I thought it was a gift for me, a chew toy. When he left the room, I demonstrated my deep appreciation for that gift. The library charged him $35 but let him keep what was left of the book — that was so nice of them, giving him a gift like that. When he came home from the library, I wagged my tail, sniffed him, and read his mind: “I could have bought this same book at a bookstore for far less. Did I really spend $325 for you? — $425, counting the shoes? — $460, counting the book. You’re the $460 dog now. At that price, why aren’t you bionic?”
It makes me happy to hear how often I grow in value. I’m a good investment. I feel solid and dependable for my man. I do what I can for him, like that time I chewed the antenna nub on his cell phone. I got the satisfaction of a good chew. He went to the store and returned with a phone that works. It was win-win.
My man stands there in his sneakers, staring down into my “walk me” trance. Most times, no matter how much I bark, bounce, and weave between his legs, he leaves without me. A dog not walked is a dog well wasted, I try to tell him. I keep wagging and sniffing. “Just look at you,” he thinks. “You’ve gotten so fat. You’re no longer a wiener dog; you’re a bratwurst dog. I better walk you more, despite the aggravation. You have cost too much now for me to let you die of a heart attack before age 3.”
He attaches the retractable leash to my collar, and I jump out of the car, barking before I even hit the ground. Then I go after everything that moves — strollers, joggers, walkers, other dogs. Animate objects make me anxious. The Riverwalk is my oyster.
“Cool it, Cujo,” my man says, which makes no sense at all to a dog named Skooder — or Dammit for short.
He yanks me out of the path of others. Bike spokes mesmerize me. Bigger dogs just make me bark louder and bare my teeth. I go after a squirrel. He yanks me. I go after a duck. He yanks me. He doesn’t take me for walks; he takes me for yanks.
“You’re slowing me down,” he says. “See why I don’t bring you.”
I head for a fire hydrant 20-some feet off the path, but he yanks me. I defy the yank. I’m under hydrant hypnosis. “You don’t need a hydrant,” he says. “You don’t even lift your leg. It’s embarrassing. You’re a male. Maybe I’ll have to teach you the technique out back when the neighbors aren’t watching.”
He doesn’t need to teach me that. I mean, I’m not stupid. The neighbor dog behind us demonstrates the leg-lift method all the time, but it looks like a lot of work, all that staying in one position and balancing on three legs. Who is this dog? — Philippe Petit? He probably can spin his dog dish on his snout.
As a long-haired miniature dachshund, I’m built too close to the ground for the leg-lift technique to really be efficient. Oh, but how I’d love to get a piece of that show-off dog. Sometimes he lifts his leg and aims right into my yard. Once, I escaped the house and went straight for that four-legged lawn sprinkler, despite the size differential. I stood my ground, barking at that beast towering over me, my back hairs rising like a bad toupee. You know what that dog did? He hiked his leg over my head and … well … you know the rest. My man and neighbors laughed at that dog. Stupid dog doesn’t know the difference between a dachshund and a fire hydrant.
I nip at the heels of two women. He yanks me, which confuses me, because the whole time he commands, “Heel, Dammit, heel.” I’m just doing what he tells me. The two women frown. Our walk ends. “I’ve had enough. Let’s go home before there’s a lawsuit,” my man says.
It’s odd how much longer the walk takes him when my man walks alone. See how much time I save him? I make his walks more efficient. And here he claims I slow him down.
Every man needs a wiener dog.
