The Problem with My Dachshund
Detail of a postcard, from the collection of Wolfgang Sauber. Used under Creative Commons license. The problem with my dachshund is that he pees.
Constantly. Unrelentingly. On rugs and furniture and laps.
He looks up at you with those large, dark eyes, and attempts to communicate innocence. I know better. He’s a malicious bladder loosener. He knows that he’s a tiny dog in an enormous, chaotic world.
Piss is his weapon for bringing it down to his level.
My dachshund and I live in a trailer in the mountains. I spend most of my days in this trailer, ever since I lost my Walmart job.
In case you live in a big city, let me tell you about Walmart where I live. Maybe you think that Walmart is someplace to go shop when you’re out of money because you need a bookcase and they’ve got one that’ll do fine.
Where I live, Walmart is the place to be. It’s where you take your date on Friday night because it’s the only thing that’s open. Outside, it’s all dark mountains and snow, and you could go out and grab some beers in the woods, and sometimes you do, but that’s not how you want to impress a new date. Walmart is lit up, bright, and warm. You can stroll through the aisles and talk about the fishing rods and sift through the big bin of Hot Wheels cars. You can make it a dinner date by wandering the grocery aisles taking food samples, and that’s a good way to get full cheap if your date has a sense of humor.
It was the
