We’ve always been a “big dog” and “little dog” family. A German shepherd service dog for me, and a little dog for my kids to snuggle. And yes, my husband and I snuggled the wee one, too. Sheba was my worker, and our red dachshund mix, Oscar Mayer Weiner Dog, was her small side-kick.
(Okay, the name isn’t very original, but he really looked like an Oscar!)
Oscar was a surprise, to be sure. And no, it wasn’t love at first sight. At the time, we had three dogs, plus our housemate owned a standard poodle. Needless to say, the last thing we needed was another dog. We live in San Diego, and my cleaning lady lived in Mexico. She showed up one day with “Shorty,” and asked me to keep him. Maria had rescued the stray from across the border but couldn’t keep him herself. I reluctantly had to refuse. The landlord didn’t know we were way past the “two-pet maximum” lease clause, and we were already pushing out luck.
“Please take him! Street dogs don’t live long in Tijuana,” she begged.
I replied, “Okay, but only until we can find him a good home.”
Well, we all know how fast that can go south. I became another failed foster parent. Oscar was wary at first, but soon realized he’d struck gold, made himself right at home, and paid us back in kind. Despite his small size, he became a ferocious watch dog. He proved it when someone tried to break into my teenage daughter’s second story bedroom one night. Little Oscar alerted us before the big dogs did! His growling and barking scared the intruder, who climbed back over the patio railing to the overhanging tree.
When the tree limb cracked, our intruder fell two stories down. The next morning, blood all over the concrete patio told a frightening tale. Little Oscar strutted his stuff before my German shepherd and black Lab, and even our small terrier had to admire his cajones. Afraid of nothing and no one, my scrappy little Mexican street dog always stood his ground. We loved our brave Tijuana transplant even more. As the newest dog in the family, Oscar outlived the others except for my service dog, Sheba. By this time the children were grown and gone, so it was only hubby, me, Sheba and Oscar–my little treat lover.
Oscar Mayer always sat on my lap while I wrote. My eighteen-year-old pup was still bursting with health, and his glossy coat and bright brown eyes showed it. But then cancer struck, and in three short months, my little guy was gone.
My husband waited for what he considered an appropriate mourning period, then said, “You should get another small dog.”
My reply?
“No way!”
I’d had enough of gut-wrenching goodbyes. Watching Oscar being put down nearly did me in. My heart couldn’t handle it anymore. I flat out refused, and I meant it. No new dogs. I had my beloved Sheba. She was more than enough.
Then my stubborn Navy husband’s military campaign kicked it. My email was flooded with photos of available dogs from shelters and rescue organizations. Next came the “subtle” remarks that weren’t so subtle at all.
“It’s too quiet around here with just one dog.”
“I miss sleeping with Oscar. He loved to snuggle.”
“I hope no one tries to break in. Two dogs are better than one.”
I wasn’t about to be swayed, so he brought out the big guns.
“Fine. You don’t have to get a new dog. I’m getting one for me.”
Well, I certainly couldn’t forbid that. So we went to a dachshund breeder, where a six-year-old miniature dapple gray male named Smokey had been returned when his divorcing owners abandoned him. I had Sheba—The Beauty–along to see if the two could “get along.” Smokey—The Beast–immediately attacked my leashed German shepherd with everything he had! I couldn’t believe it! Sheba just looked down at him with disdain, and didn’t even break her “Sit.”
My husband quickly picked up attack-dog Smokey and calmed him down. Then we noticed black specks under his coat; tons of black. Great, I thought. Flea dirt. Only I quickly realized it wasn’t flea dirt; these were bite scabs from being rudely dumped in a huge pack of strange dachshunds. This confused, abandoned dog had been fighting for his food and his life, and even took on the threat of a German shepherd. His strong survival instinct was way off the charts.
This dog had heart!
THAT was my “Love at First Sight” moment. I took Smokey into my arms.
My husband met my gaze and asked, “Yes?”
“Oh, yes,” I replied. (I won’t mention what I thought of that heartless breeder.)
Once home, hubby smugly admitted that Smokey was for me all along. I guess grief really did mess with my head, because I’m usually not that slow. I should have seen right through his sneaky—but now welcome!–ploy. So instead of Oscar, Smokey now cuddled contentedly in my lap. It took a full three months for the last of his terrible bite scabs to fall off.
When old age finally took Sheba soon after her thirteenth birthday, I was devastated. I debated whether to get a new service dog, but decided against it. Knee replacement surgery and a V.A. provided scooter took care of my mobility issues. But nothing could take care of the big hole in my heart.
Thank God I wasn’t dog-less. Smokey continued warming my lap while I sat at my keyboard. Smokey and I went for cheery walks in the park to see the ducks. Smokey nestled up against me in bed at night. And Smokey’s presence consoled my aching heart until I finally accepted Sheba would never again nap under my desk while I wrote my stories.
Smokey’s been with me for seven years now. I’ve written many romance books, but I never used or believed that trite “Love at First Sight” shopworn cliché. I’m so glad I was proved wrong by a damn good man…and eleven wonderful pounds of dapple gray!
