The Lifecycle

Anniversary
May 8th was Bill and Bailey's birthday.  They turned six years old.  Other than the grey speckles on their muzzles and the extra hobble in Bailey's walk, you probably wouldn't know they were six years old upon meeting them.  In fact Bailey's hobble isn't even from age, but from surgeries and her face will always have the soft edges of a puppy's features.  They're crazy little turds.

It's hard to believe they've been with us for four years.  I say that in an "Only four years?  Wow" way and a "Wow, it's been four years already" way.

When we found them at the shelter (we've never bought a dog, or any animal other than a fish for that matter) they were on the verge of turning two years old.  In the next four years they would go through the following:

Bill
*One back surgery for a bulging (almost herniated) disc
*One oral surgery for a broken and infected tooth to be extracted
*A strained hip
*Numerous speculations, foods, ointments, pills, etc until finally a vet put him on the miracle antihistamine (who woulda thunk it?) for his incessant itches that caused raw, bloody spots that turned into a bald chest and the occasional whimper.
*I forgot about the neuter.
*Stress-induced colitis

Bailey
*Two surgeries for herniated discs
*Due to the surgeries the inability to control her pooper (the control, after a few years, is finally starting to come back)
*Also due to the surgeries, the inability to walk normally giving her an old-lady-wobble and making her favor a bunny-hop-run which causes her back legs to work together rather than against themselves
*Laryngitis (That's what you get for over-rooing yourself)
*I know I'm forgetting something...

What have we learned?  Unless you have PATIENCE and a large SAVINGS ACCOUNT, dachshunds are probably not the dogs for you.

But their giant eyes and toddle-toddle-weenie-waddles have captured our hearts and our bank accounts.  We're doomed.

Death
A few days later my mom broke the news to me that my aunt's dog, Pebbles, passed away.  This was not entirely unexpected but seeing as I don't talk to my aunt on the phone regularly like my mom does, I did not realize how sick and old Pebbles really was.

I am taking this for the better because the picture my mom painted for me of Pebbles' last day was not pretty.  I will remember her as the little schnoodle-doodle-noodle dog (she was some sort of schnauzer-poodle-mix-thing rescued like most dogs in my extended family, so her origins are muddled) with little purple bows in her ears from her latest grooming and the long princess-train-tail that dragged along after her.  She was a princess-dog of sorts, but not overly foo-foo like some dogs.  My aunt would never let it get that way.  She was queen of the house and demanded respect but was also soft spoken (compared to what I put up with everyday).  She was twelve years old and will be missed.

My aunt and uncle will adopt another dog eventually, but they will take their time.  Losing one dog and taking in another are two very difficult things especially when done together.

Poop Machines
I haven't volunteered at the shelter in a few weeks and I feel guilty for it.  I love it when there is a litter of puppies.  Aside from the constant need to clean up piles of puppy poo (which is altogether different and worse than adult dog poo--we won't get into details) which seems in endless supply, having little balls of puppy fluff crawling all over me, tugging at my shoe laces and chewing on my jeans always brings a smile to my face.  I fell in love with Mikey, the shepherd-mix pup who did the dive into my crotch and promptly fell asleep.  He and his littermates looked just like our late dog, Becki.  Sometimes I just hang over the door looking in knowing how hard it will be to leave them (both emotionally and because they latch on and threaten to run rampant around the shelter).  But the puppies always go fast, the puppy room is cleaned and smelling freshly of bleach again, and we must wait for another litter of sweet little innocents to arrive.