I probably started asking for a dog when I was seven or eight and when I was ten, for Christmas, I got to pick out a dog at Doctor’s Pet Center in Stonestown. Yes, he was probably from a puppy mill, but we didn’t know from puppy mills in the ’70s, so no negative comments people. All my future dogs have been and will always be rescue dogs. But I digress. I chose Mort, a rambunctious 13-week old dachshund.
Morton John Badertscher. I was going to name him Brodie after the 49ers’ quarterback at the time, but instead I jumped on the name Mort, because he was one of the guys my dad sat next to at Niner’s games. He was AKC, so when filling out his paperwork, we needed a middle name, so I borrowed my dad’s first name. Mort only heard his full name when he got in trouble, which was quite often.
Anyway, he lived for 15 years. One of the saddest days in my life at that point was putting him down. But he lives on in infamy. (Just ask the people he bit, including my sister.) My family still tells Mort stories to this day.
And now, many years and four dogs later, another dachshund is in my life. Oliver is a purebred as was Mort, and probably a tad overbred. He’s got a bit of a limp either from being overbred or from being hit by a car back in July. His xrays didn’t show hip fractures like we had been told, but instead showed major chest trauma and broken ribs. How could his first family dump him after that?
In less than three weeks, Oliver has moved in with remarkable ease. He’s a super lap dog and moves from Shelly’s lap to mine with no hesitation. He and Frances have become fast friends and engage in impromptu chases throughout the day. Everything is just very exciting to him. He (like Mickey did) loves figs and has to be watched in our yard or he’ll literally stuff himself with ripe and half-eaten figs. Nice.
So, Oliver, let the nicknames begin – Ollie, Ali Baba, Oliver Twist …