KBad's Blog

When we were in LA over New Years, Oliver got hold of a few rubber dog toys that my mother-in-law keeps around for her grandpuppies. The hideous red-antennaed squeaky thing quickly lost a few of its antennae. We pulled some from his mouth, along with some squeaker parts from other toys. We finally took the toys away when we noticed one of the bug-eyed toys was missing both of its bug-eyes. One was on the floor, but the other was MIA.

Thankfully, one of the antennae showed up days later in Oakland. Apparently, antennae in, antennae out. But the eyeball didn’t surface and we were a bit worried. Fast forward two weeks later to a very sick Oliver. Sick enough to go to the emergency vet at 7am on a Sunday. His symptoms (throwing up, painful bloated stomach, crying when moving) were way too similar to what we had experienced with Mickey so taking him that day was a must. But $500, many x-rays, and a blood test later, the vet chalked it up to gastroenteritis. The x-ray showed a small thing or two in his stomach (hello nylabone pieces), but nothing that would cause his distress. I peered at the x-ray, looking for that eyeball, but nope, it wasn’t there. The vet did point out the hairline fractures and a weird alignment thing with his hips, and three metal sutures in his leg. Metal sutures? That’s where the limp comes from. No one told us about a messed up leg. This little guy has really been through a bit of everything.

So, Oliver got better and we were very relieved to say the least. But that’s not the end of the story. A week and a half after our excursion to the emergency vet, Shelly came home to some dog puke surrounding a few weird looking things. She was as startled as I was when she showed them to me a few hours later. Apparently, rubber eyeballs grow when hanging out in canine stomachs for a few weeks.

The watch is for scale.

I really don’t know why we couldn’t see that thing in the x-ray. The stick, seed, and valve were stuck inside of the eyeball waiting, I guess, for the ride out.

Reviews were conducted in December 2008 using two test subjects, Oliver and Frances; and two beds, one purchased, one DIY. Each dog was compensated with a treat following the tests.

A round, soft, portable, and washable classic dog bed. A perfect bed for a 15-pound dog.

Laundry basket filled with dirty clothes and sheets. Not a proper dog bed for any animal, although Oliver disagrees.

A round, soft, portable, and washable classic dog bed. A perfectly sized bed for a 15-pound dog, but not a 70-pound dog, but Frances couldn’t resist. Note the placement of her left paw, as if she is trying to hold the bed together. Surprisingly this little bed stood up quite admirably to the Frances test.

I guess it really doesn’t matter what kind of bed it is or what you consider the correct definition of a bed is. If it’s off the floor and it’s soft and warm, it’s a bed fit for dogs.

Well, make that squirrel hunting from a second-story bedroom window. Great view, but no physical contact. Makes for a no-fuss, no-mess squirrel hunt.

Here’s Oliver complete with feral sounding growls and whines:

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.

Mort's first Christmas and my first dog.

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 …

Here I am more than 35 years later with Oliver, the dachshund.

Is he an Oliver or a Kirby? We can’t decide.

He’s 14-months old. We adopted him from H.O.P.E. rescue in Turlock, CA. He’s red, long, sports a white strip down his chest, walks with a slight limp when he’s tired (he was hit by a car in July), is under 15 pounds, and gets along great with Frances. He pulled all of the toys out of the basket, had a bath, and now, is fast asleep on the couch.

More details to come. We’re exhausted.

Playing with one of many toys.

His first close up.