The Famous Dachshund
Sometime in the mid-nineties I had related how the Favorite Dachshund lost the chance to be a Father Dachshund in a short story titled “The Prodigal Dog.” Having had over twenty years to think it over, I now realize that was a bad title. Unlike the Prodigal Son, the Family Dog did not come to his senses in a pigsty. He never entered the pigsty in the first place, so there was no question of him coming to his senses.
When we finally found him nine days after he had fled the canine bedchamber, the Family Dachshund was leading a privileged existence as the guest of a dispensary in an affluent housing society. He had no inclination to return to the humbler Family Dwelling of yore.
And who could blame him? We did not allow him to sit on the sofa, but here he was installed in the most comfortable seat the dispensary possessed – and remember this was an affluent society. The seat was made of the best Rexine money could buy, and padded to boot. The patients patiently remained standing so the Fatigued Dachshund could remain seated.
Of course we adored him, but there were only five of us and we couldn’t do it 24/7. At the dispensary, he was surrounded by constant streams of worshipful masses. Doctors, nurses, patients, neighbors, maids, watchmen, and even the odd rickshawalla all came to pay homage to the Fabled Dachshund. Some stood and gazed in silent admiration, some genuflected in reverent awe, and some collapsed prostrate with screams of Frenzied Devotion. Such star power did the Famous Dachshund exude that they had named him Ringo.For weeks afterwards he refused to answer to any other name, even though in his pre-traumatic stress days he had answered to any name if there was food involved. But we were so thrilled to have him back that we were willing to call him Ringo, and we even let him sit in the rocking chair. He eventually started responding to his own name, but he never stopped sitting in the rocking chair.