14_SEPT_2006
I admire my dog Rose. She accommodates me in a way that humans rarely accommodate each other. While happiest with her routine, Rosy adapts and adjusts, putting up with my mood shifts and idiosyncrasies, always with good grace even as she scrambles for the latest bit of bacon or cheese to hit the kitchen floor.
Dogs have no pride. Rosy begs, dances on her hind legs like an organ grinder's monkey, and burrows beneath my butt while I’m couch-potating each evening in front of the TV. While we humans hide the fact that our genitalia itch or that a buildup of Alka-Seltzer and bad chili is about to erupt like Etna, a pooch licks and farts with abandon. Dogs can be taught to purge liquid and solids out of doors, but not their gases.
And procreation? Well, no pretense there! Where all women and most men race for cover when caught in flagrante, bitches and their sonsofbitches find wheel barrowing in public to be an utter delight. Not that Rose and her ilk are exhibitionists. Quite frankly -- and unlike Rhett or Miss Scarlett -- they just don’t give a damn.
It was in this ponderous frame of mind that I took Rose with me to see last weekend’s Eleventh Annual “Running of the Weenies” in Germantown. Rose was not pre-registered, so she had to sit in the bleachers and watch with my wife Sharon and me. What we saw unfolding down on the field was further testimonial to the innate wisdom of hounds – dachshunds in particular.
Over 100 wiener dogs participated, racing some 50 yards from master to mistress over a grueling, wet (a thunderclap Tennessee deluge struck moments before race time) grassy course. The tension was palpable. Some animals had trained several minutes for the competition. A few barked eager anticipation of their big moment. Most licked the nearest hand in hopes of a hand out.
As the flags fell marking the start of each of ten heats, the owners commanded, “Come on! Come on!” And the hounds complied. They thundered from the starting line, propelled by pumping muscles, their mighty lungs filled to capacity, their sleek bodies darting across spectators' fields of vision like furry arrows launched from a crossbow.
Well, maybe not. A couple of the less portly zipped along at a pretty fair pace, but mostly, the weenies behaved like dogs. That is, they sauntered, tails whipping like puppy metronomes. Some never got off the launch pad, preferring to hang out at the starting line. Others just wandered off the course all together or ran halfway then turned around and ran back. Some pooped. In one instance, boy met girl and consummated their passion right there in front of the delighted eyes of children and the disapproving stares of their parents who would have to explain sooner or later.
Where was the shame? I discussed this matter with Rose following the 8th heat, when the judges couldn’t even get a quorum to win, place and show. Just two weenies crossed the finish line. The third place dog kept coming within inches only to turn back toward the start line. The thrill of victory finally gave way to the agony of defeat after several anxious moments, when some other mutt wandered in off the field and took third place.
Rose listened to me rant awhile about dog etiquette, discipline, and a general striving for excellence before she answered. She let her Gene Simmons tongue loll out of her jaw, cocking her head to one side. Then she rolled her big brown eyes, as if to say:
Shame? What shame? Win? What win? Lose? What lose?
Rose gave me a big dog smile and let that suffice. Turning toward the food court on the other side of the park, she tugged at her leash to let me know that the race was over and, if we hurried, we’d be able to get to the funnel cake booth before it closed down for the day.
