Frieda was pretty old for a dachshund. The day came when the decision
had to be made for her and it was my decision to make. Jack was too young. Gerry was away at college. Frieda was our responsibility and had
been our little sister for about a decade. Getting old didn’t seem like something that could ever slow
the unbounded energy of our auburn colored, happy little pal.
Weiner dogs run like a slinky with little stubby legs and
the breeze can spread their ears as though running was the prelude to flight. Looking a dachshund in the eye makes
them smile and the front part of their body seems to wag a bit before the tail
gets the message.
Frieda was smart.
Dad did most of the training because we were all less than 10 when
Frieda became part of the family.
He taught her boundaries in the house – she never set paw on a carpeted
surface. Outside she learned our
property lines without the benefit of a fence, invisible fence nor surveyor’s
stakes. Dad would lead her to the
edge of the road. On the grass he
would pet her – on the gravel he would spank her and say no – Frieda learned.
In every football or wiffle ball game, Frieda
was a star. She
was the quickest outfielder who ever retrieved a well hit ball. When a runner broke free in football
she would run a serpentine path in front of him slowing him down until the
defenders could catch up and make the two hand touch – and occasionally the
unintended tackle.
But this isn’t about her glory days when she was full of
energy and spunk. Those good days
seem to blend together into one long stretch of hours when everything was as it
was supposed to be. Days were
filled with games and chores.
Frieda did her share or was, at least, always there.
This is about the time when Frieda was pretty old. I talked to Dad about what to do and he
told me I should call Dr. Duncan, the vet who had taken care of Frieda for most
of her life. It was a hard call
but Dr. Duncan, who even let kids call him Dunk, was kind and suggested I bring
her in so he could take a look. It
was late afternoon on a gray December day.
In order to be a veterinarian having gentle hands must be a
requirement. Dunk held Frieda and
looked in her eyes. He rubbed her
belly, frowned a little and just said uhhhmm. After checking her all over with his hands, Dunk suggested
she stay overnight and that he would do a thorough exam in the morning. He told me that she was old and that
she might be in a lot of pain. He said
sometimes the hardest thing we have to do is to do the right thing for our
pets. He promised to call in the
morning and would go no further until I came back to see her.
Sleep wasn’t easy.
I talked to Dad. I cried
when I was alone in my room.
Christmas was just a couple weeks away and I couldn’t imagine how I
could be happy or celebrate.
Christmas was a big deal for mom and there were always lots of
activities building to an elaborate meal and opening of gifts on Christmas
Eve. I knew I just wouldn’t feel
like taking part.
Dunk called early the next morning – it was Saturday and so
I wasn’t in school. He said I
think you’d better get over here.
Dad offered to go but this was something I had to do. I knew she was old but I just didn’t
know what that meant I should do.
When I got to the office, Dunk’s assistant greeted me and
said that Dr. Duncan had asked that I be brought back to the private area as
soon as I arrived. On the walk
down the long hallway, dogs were barking, whining, and yipping on both sides. I managed a grin for Frieda.
Dunk stood in the middle of the room holding Frieda. His face was stern and then he simply
said, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. A little grin was starting to grow up on his cheeks as he
turned and nodded toward a small little bed with a pink blanket and a tiny
puppy asleep in the corner. Dunk
said he’d never been so shocked or surprised as he had that morning when he
arrived at the clinic. He went,
first thing, to check on Frieda. There
in the cage were mother and son – the only puppy she had ever had.
Yes, Frieda was old.
We never had any idea a puppy was the source of her discomfort. She was a little crotchety and didn’t enjoy mothering
her offspring, so Jack and I did bottle duty to give her little guy a start -
a fighting chance. Frieda was
happy with that arrangement. The
birth of a baby engulfs everything in happiness. I took frequent breaks from Christmas doings that year to
rub Frieda’s ears and to feed her pup. It's a happy story that begins, "One December years ago…"
--td