Introducing Olive The Dachshund (And, Hey, Marlon Brando, Stop Mumbling About The Trash)
Do you hear that sound? It’s your dachshund overlord calling. Ignore her at your own peril.
As a child, I guess I never much cared for the animal kingdom.
I say “I guess” because my parents only had pets—three Yorkshire Terriers—during my infancy. I was told that I used to climb out of my playpen, turn it over, bait the pups to move closer, then trap them underneath, creating some kind of impenetrable, white-mesh puppy Alcatraz.
Soon after, my parents found happy new homes for the penitentiary pups.
And after my jailhouse insolence, I had not so much as a goldfish throughout the remainder of my childhood. Which was fine, because, hey, how the hell is a two year-old going to lure a fish under a Pack N’ Play anyway?
Age: Two.
Criminal IQ: Through the F#*king Roof.
(Photo: Hasbro Preschool)
As an adult, I warmed to the idea of having a pet, primarily because I had girlfriends who owned cats or dogs. This was a great entrée into pet-dom, because I had no responsibility of ownership yet enjoyed the closeness that came with spending time around Fido or Kitty.
And then came Olive.
Olive is a tail-wagging, short-haired dachshund pup who belonged to some random chick I met at a Joan Jett concert (and eventually married). Although I had been aware of dachshunds, I couldn’t recall ever seeing one before that wasn’t a red balloon at a pre-pubescent birthday party.
But the moment I met Olive, it was like a sausage with a snout shot her bow and launched a liver-flavored arrow straight into my a**.
And just like that—I was under the spell of a dachshund overlord.
Um, Am I Gonna Need a Tetanus Shot Now?!?
(Photo: etsy.com)
Dachshunds are interesting creatures. They were initially bred to be badger hunters (dachshund literally means “badger dog”), which explains several huge facets of dox-dom:
* A loud—VERY LOUD—bark, to alert hunters from underground [How loud? Imagine cupping your ear to a rocket launching pad.]
* A long snout, to pick up the scent of prey [And provide them with the dubious ability to smell chicken cooking from about six states away.]
* An absolutely fearless nature [They either don’t know or don’t care that they are roughly the size of a Pottery Barn lunchbox.]
You see, badgers dig deep holes. And they’re nasty as hell. You seriously think a Pug or Chihuahua is going to FedEx a box of kick-a** to Mr. Badger?
Dachshunds are card-carrying members of “I Don’t Give a F#*k", which means they are content to fight (way) outside their weight class. Forget German Shepherd; Olive once attacked a horse.
And if her tussle with Seabiscuit wasn’t amusing enough, try this saddle on: the first time I saw Olive lose her little mind was when my now-wife bought me an expensive shaving set for our first Valentine’s Day. A kit which included a brush made of fine badger hair.
Olive lunged at that lather-maker like she was about to spray slo-mo bullets in a John Woo film.
To this very day, I keep my shaving kit high up in a closed cabinet.
Excuse Me, Officer. Can I See Your Badge(r)?
(Photo: Golden Princess Film Production Ltd.)
Two things struck me instantly about my new canine bestie.
First, how genuinely taken she seemed to be with me. Olive acted like I owned a chain of butcher shops. And she promptly hitched her wagon to an imagined rib-eye and rawhide party train.
And second, that Olive had a “voice”.
Oh, I don’t mean that the pup actually spoke to me (which would either land this story on the cover of Time or land me in a psych ward. Or, even cooler, BOTH.).
No, Olive’s voice was provided courtesy of her proud owner.
If A Dachshund Doesn’t Get You, Mr. Badger, The Art of Shaving Probably Will.
(Photos: Spirit-Animals.com, The Art of Shaving)
People humanize animals. Dog owners, in particular, have come to see themselves as "parents" to their little “children”.
I am no different in my view of our pups. Olive and her little “brother” Rufus (himself the subject of an upcoming story) receive gifts on birthdays and holidays, in the same way as my daughter, Sabrina--although Sabrina’s gifts no longer require squeaky sound effects.
God, I miss one-stop shopping.
Olive is obviously not human, yet that doesn’t make her occupy a status less than family member for me.
And society has affirmed this treatment. Look around and you’ll see pet motels, doggie spas, dog trainers, dog whisperers, dog groomers, designer wares, pet birthday cards, organic pet food and lots of other pricey options available at—what else?—a pet superstore.
There are even pet psychics who can actually read doggie minds! My wife met one of these highly-gifted individuals at a Halloween party. She asked the medium if there was anything Olive wanted that she wasn’t getting.
The clairvoyant’s response [eyes squinted and fingers raised, encircling her temples])?
I See...Cheeseburgers.
And After I Break Outta This Crap Hole, I’m Getting Me a Puppy. And a Cheeseburger to Share with That Puppy.
(Photo: Paramount Pictures)
The “humanification” of animals is not a new concept. I read Orwell’s Animal Farm in grammar school. And in children’s literature, there was that cat with a fiddle and a little dog laughing (and some utensils running away to Vegas to get hitched or something).
But dog owners—quite commonly, I’ve found—literally give their pups a voice. And the voices we give the pups are a reflection of what we observe their personalities to be.
Here’s some insight into Olive’s diverse personality. Olive, much like her nemesis the Honey Badger, doesn’t take any crap. And her sensibilities are violated when she detects anything empirically unfair.
Olive is practical (she only eats small amounts throughout the day), relentless (will nudge her nose against my thigh until I give in and provide belly rubs), a con-artist (if my wife gives her a treat and I don’t see it, Olive will wait for her to leave the room and then beg me as if she never had one), focused (will spend two hours stripping the skin off a tennis ball), a bit of a diva (she won’t walk AWAY from the house but will walk back) and a complete love-bug.
She must also be part fish. Whenever we are near a lake, we practically have to drag her out of the water. The entire time she either barks at waves or swims in circles.
And please, oh please, don’t ever take Olive through an automatic Car Wash. That sound can simply be described as "Barking as played through a Chinese Wall of Marshall Amps".
And all of this “voice” stuff would have seemed silly to me before I fell for Olive and her mother.
These Amps are Highly Regarded In the Wiener Dog-Asian Partition-Vehicle Aquatic Maintenance Community.
(Photo: Stereogum.com)
I thought my wife was either adorable, nuts or both when I heard her speak in Olive’s voice for the first time. It sounded kind of familiar, actually, but I couldn’t place the origin. Much later, it hit me: Olive’s voice sounded like one or all of the following:
1) That sentient jack-in-the-box on The Island of Misfit Toys from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer;
2) A slightly higher-pitched version of what Seinfeld made George Steinbrenner sound like; or
3) A slightly lower-pitched Mickey Mouse, but with more street-wise attitude.
Either way, it’s a voice you cannot forget, particularly when Olive’s keen sensibilities of right and wrong are offended. At that point, Olive becomes the Queen of Righteous Indignation.
For example, upon learning that no dogs are allowed on a particular beach, Olive would say something like this:
Apparently, she also likes a good pun.
Either Billy Martin is a Misfit Toy or We Will Only Ever Have 2/3 of Olive ‘s Voice Represented in a Single Picture.
(Photo: Disney Parks)
Olive is 11 now, going on 12. In some ways, she is still the same vibrant, lively pup I fell in love with. Yet, I succumb to thoughts of the inevitable when I see her whitening coat, her struggle to walk as fast as Rufus, or the report from her vet, which now generally includes a heart murmur or cataracts or something else age-appropriate.
And I get sad when I see a bored look on Olive’s face. In those moments, I want to transport her to a lake house in Maine, where she can run free and bark at waves, rather than pace through our Manhattan apartment, which is filled with an endless cycle of thoughts and deeds related to human obligations. Many days, the best Olive can hope for is a 10-minute walk on the unforgiving city sidewalk.
Olive was my first “child” but naturally, since my daughter was born, Olive doesn't get the best of me anymore. And a part of me wishes I could clone myself just to be there exclusively for a small pup who has filled my life with the most surprising and unexpected love I have experienced; the love for and from an animal.
I bet Olive would think wishing to be cloned is silly.
“What a waste!” I can hear her say in her Christmastime-reindeer-jack-in-the-box-Yankees-owner-Disney-rodent-righteous-indignation-type tones.
Wasteful. Like asking a wish-granting genie for more ketchup. Or asking the Godfather--on the day of his daughter’s wedding--to take out your garbage.
“You can do better with those wishes!” I imagine Olive would say. Like asking for a mountain of liver treats. Or non-ending days on a Maine river.
Just Make Sure You Separate the Paper from the Plastics, Vito.
(Photo: Paramount Pictures)
I know someday I will have to walk on those unforgiving city sidewalks without Olive beside me. And that thought carves a small piece from my heart each time it appears. But I fully expect the Great Beyond to trumpet fairness, and include endless sunshine and a lake with great rolling waves, just the right size for an eager pup to pounce on for eternity.
[Um, the Great Beyond will have a lake, won’t it? If it doesn’t, Olive is gonna be really, really pissed off.]
A Weiner No One Wants To Pet.
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